Summertime Blues
by notnowmaybelater
Summary: Dudley receives a letter that could change his life - an invitation to an open day at Grunnings drill co. Learn the secrets of the Smeltings stick and the wonders of woodwork. Is Vernon Dursley really a criminal mastermind of the wizarding world? COMPLETE
1. A Shameful Secret

1. A SHAMEFUL SECRET  
  
A bell signalled the end of the last day of term at Smeltings Boys' School. Dudley Dursley raced along the corridor and sprinted up the flight of stairs to his dorm. He'd already packed his massive suitcase, first thing after he'd woken up that morning. He just needed to check round quickly to make sure he'd not forgotten anything. Then he could be away -- back home to Surrey in the back of his dad's new BMW -- and not a second too soon!   
  
"Hey, ex-fat boy!" said a voice. Dudley looked up to see Piers Polkiss peering round the door at him. "Don't forget your Smeltings stick," Piers said as he slouched into the dorm.   
  
The Smeltings stick had been left, forgotten, propped up by Dudley's bed. "Thanks," Dudley said gruffly. He briefly considered giving Piers a whack on the shins with the Smeltings stick but fought the impulse. What would be the point? Piers had been getting on his nerves lately, but he couldn't put his finger on the reason. Piers was the same as ever. Maybe that was the problem, thought Dudley. After all, he -- Dudley Dursley -- had changed more in the past year than he could ever have imagined.   
  
He re-opened his suitcase and crammed the Smeltings stick inside with the rest of his things. The case was bulging and would be difficult to close again. He struggled with it.   
  
Piers was dragging his own suitcase towards the door. He stopped to watch Dudley with a grin that made him look even more rat-like than usual. "A few months ago, you could have squashed it closed by sitting your fat backside on it," he said.   
  
"Yeah," said Dudley, pushing his floppy blond fringe out of his eyes. It was true. At first he'd resented the diet he'd been forced to go on. Sometimes he still did. But he had to admit it had been effective. Having grapefruit segments for breakfast every morning had seen to it that he'd gone through four sets of Smeltings uniforms in the past year, each one a size smaller than the last. It hadn't done any harm that this year had seen him grow to almost six foot in height, a little taller than his dad. But Dudley had quickly realised that being a year older and several stones lighter had brought with it a whole new set of problems -- and not being able to squash a suitcase closed by sitting on it wasn't anywhere near to being the worst!   
  
Outside, the afternoon sky was grey and overcast. Dudley's dad was waiting by the school gates. When he saw Dudley, he waved and began trotting across the school grounds to meet him. A broad smile creased Vernon Dursley's craggy face.   
  
"Here, let me take that for you, son," he puffed, trying to pull the suitcase away from Dudley.   
  
"No!" Straight away, Dudley realised he'd spoken too sharply. His dad looked at him, puzzled. "I mean, it's not heavy or anything," Dudley told him quickly.   
  
"Even so..." Vernon Dursley wrenched the case away from him. He raised his eyebrows and whistled. "It really isn't heavy, is it, son? A big case like that! Who'd have thought --"   
  
"Look, there's mum," said Dudley, glad of an excuse to change the subject. Petunia Dursley had got out of the car and was scanning the school grounds for her son and husband. Dudley waved. She waved back excitedly and ran up to join them.   
  
"My little Diddykins!" she said, throwing her arms round him. "All grown up!"   
  
Dudley bent down to kiss her cheek. "Not so loud, mum," he whispered, blushing. He wasn't sure his mum was listening. She'd got a paper towel out of her handbag and was busy wiping her lipstick off his face with it.   
  
"See ya next term, Diddykins," smirked Piers, as he passed them, dragging his suitcase along the concrete.   
  
Back outside the school gates, Vernon Dursley effortlessly threw the suitcase in the boot of the car and rubbed his hands together. "All set, people? In you get, Dudders!"   
  
He didn't need telling twice. Dudley threw himself into the back seat of the gleaming silver BMW. "Smart wheels, dad," he said. "Can't wait to learn to drive!"   
  
His dad adjusted the mirror and laughed. "You've only got a couple more years to wait, son," he said. "Maybe we can find some private land and take you for a spin there. Get you off to a head start, what do you say?"   
  
"Cool," said Dudley.   
  
"You'll be a wonderful driver," his mum said, turning round in her seat to gaze at him lovingly. "Oh, sweetheart, we're so glad to have you coming home!"   
  
Outside the earshot of the guys from school, Dudley didn't feel embarrassed by his mother's endearments. "I can't wait to get back," he said.   
  
In the mirror, he saw his father's face cloud over. "Unfortunately, son, you'll have to wait an extra half hour. We've got a slight detour to make, remember?"   
  
"Oh." Dudley remembered all right. The "slight detour" was his father's expression for the stop they made every year at King's Cross Station to pick up his cousin Harry from that freak school he attended. Dudley never looked forward to seeing Harry. Harry was, well... weird. And weak. Easily bullied. Dudley had always looked down on Harry. But he'd always been afraid of him too. Afraid some of the weirdness and weakness would rub off on him.   
  
Today, though, he was almost looking forward to Harry's return. Not that he'd had a change of heart towards his cousin. But maybe Harry was the only person who'd be able to explain all the freaky things that had been going on in Dudley's life lately...   
  
Harry was slouching out of the station as they arrived, with his suitcase and owl in tow. He was still shorter than Dudley, but he, too, had grown since the previous year. None of the Dursleys commented on it though.   
  
"Get in," said Vernon Dursley to Harry. "And don't take up too much room with that ruddy owl."   
  
Harry got into the seat behind Petunia Dursley and balanced his white owl's cage on his knee. Dudley watched him warily. On previous occasions, his dad had insisted that the cage be fastened to the roof-rack, or crammed into the boot of the car, owl and all. This time, when Harry had said "I'll keep Hedwig with me," Vernon Dursley's eyes had bulged and his face had turned slightly purple, but he'd just grunted and got back into the driver's seat.   
  
Dudley noticed a look of triumph flash across Harry's face, just for a second. Then Harry resumed his usual blank expression, the one that gave away nothing about his feelings. Maybe it was the gloomy afternoon light playing tricks, but Dudley thought there was a harder, more haunted expression in those green eyes than he'd seen before. It looked as though Harry had woken up from a bad dream, only to find the nightmare was still going on.   
  
Still, Dudley thought, we all have our secrets. He wasn't particularly interested in hearing Harry's, but if they were going to talk, he'd better make a start by trying to win his trust.   
  
"Uh... hey, cuz," he said.   
  
Harry gave him a suspicious look. "Hey," he said uncertainly. Then he turned his head away and stared out of the window at a grey and neon London street where it had begun to drizzle.   
  
That was it, thought Dudley. There was no way they'd be able to break through the barriers of fifteen years, even if they both wanted to.   
  
The car inched slowly through the rain-blackened street.   
  
"Ruddy traffic," bellowed Vernon Dursley. He pounded the car's horn with a beefy fist. They were at a crossroads, caught in a tailback that went on into the distance and the lights were against them.   
  
Petunia Dursley looked anxious. "Don't block off the side road, Vernon," she said.   
  
Dudley saw in the mirror that his dad's face was a mass of frown lines. "I do know how to drive, Petunia," he snapped. "Anyway, I've got right of --"   
  
Dudley was the first to see the lorry hurtling out of the side road towards them.   
  
"Watch out!" he yelled. But in a traffic jam there was nowhere they could move. And there was no way the lorry could stop in time...   
  
He must have blacked out. The next thing Dudley knew, Harry was dragging him across the seat of the car to get him out by the passenger side. The BMW's alarm had been set off and its shrill whine filled the air. Meanwhile, his mum was trying, not very successfully, to pull his dad out of the driver's seat. On the driver's side the lorry had come to a stop within a hair's breadth of the car's silver paintwork.   
  
Petunia Dursley stood aside as Dudley and Harry worked together to drag her husband from the car.   
  
"Ugh, gerroff," he growled as the boys pulled him across the automatic gearbox.   
  
"At least we're all safe," said his wife. "The car's OK. Let's just go home." She was shaking and looked as though she was about to cry. Dudley put his arm round her.   
  
Vernon Dursley, on the other hand, was furious. He rounded on Harry who took a step backwards.   
  
"This!" He threw his meaty hand out to indicate the surrounding chaos. He was spitting with fury. "This is your doing, isn't it? I'd know your ruddy handiwork anywhere!"   
  
Harry picked up the owl's cage. He seemed a lot less shaken than the Dursleys. "Now why would I do a silly thing like saving your life?" he said coolly. He began stroking the owl with a finger and making soothing noises at her.   
  
The lorry driver had moved his vehicle carefully away from the Dursley's car. Now, Dudley noticed, he was gone. No one had bothered to take down his number, but it was too late to worry about that. The traffic had begun to thin. Even so, Dudley could see that his dad was too shaken up to drive straight away, even if he was masking his shock with anger. There was a cafe nearby. "How about a nice cup of tea, mum?" he said.   
  
It was nearly dinner time and the cafe also served cakes and snacks. A bagel with cream cheese and lox would go very well with a cup of tea, Dudley thought. He crossed his fingers, hoping no one was in a state of mind to worry about diet sheets just then.   
  
Inside the cafe, Vernon Dursley was still fuming. The thought that he might have to be grateful to Harry made him angry. Being told he was wrong made him angry too. He gritted his teeth together and glared viciously at Harry over his teacup.   
  
Harry was unperturbed. He shrugged. "Maybe I'm not the only weirdo around here," he said. At that moment he caught Dudley's eye and gave him a meaningful look. Dudley looked away, suddenly facinated with the shred of iceberg lettuce left on his plate (his mum had vetoed the bagel). The look in Harry's eyes had been one of amusement. A knowing look, as if he'd just figured out how the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle fit together. But it wasn't a particularly friendly look. So Harry had guessed that he and his cousin had something in common, after all. Dudley's shameful secret -- the one he couldn't share with his parents because, no matter how much they loved him, it would come as a shock and a disappointment. No wonder Harry seemed to think it was funny. After all his years of sneering at Harry and bullying him, Dudley had turned out to be just as much of a freak as he was.   
  
The journey home was a silent one.   
  
Vernon Dursley gripped the steering wheel very tightly and did not even criticise the driving skills of other road users, as he usually did.   
  
Dudley was feeling depressed. It was bad enough when he'd been carrying his secret around by himself. He'd even thought it might be less painful if he could share it with someone. What a joke that was! Having Harry guess the truth was even worse, he realised. Now Harry, who might well be an enemy, knew about his secret shame -- the so-called powers that could lose Dudley the love of his family. He knew it wouldn't do anything to drive away the cloud of gloom that threatened to swallow him, but at that moment he badly wanted to eat. And eat.   
  
In the cafe, his mother had refused to treat him to a dessert. He'd reached out for a sugar doughnut off the sweet trolley, but his mum had grabbed his hand and patted it lovingly.  
  
"We're only stopping you having those things because we love you," she'd told him.   
  
Harry had tried to catch his eye again when they left the cafe, but Dudley had ignored him. Surely even his cousin had to realise how stupid it would be to dwell on the reasons for their miraculous escape. Couldn't he see how much it upset his parents? Dudley rested his head against the window and stared out. They'd joined the motorway and there was nothing much to see. He liked it that way.  
  
Number 4, Privet Drive was just as Dudley remembered it. Harry had gone straight upstairs to his room, as he always did, while Dudley went into the living room with his parents.  
  
His mum switched the TV on, ready for her favourite soap to start. She still hadn't recovered from her brush with death and was rather subdued. His dad, on the other hand, had cheered up immensely now that Harry was out of the way once more.  
  
Vernon Dursley unlocked the desk where he kept his work papers and took out a large manilla envelope.   
  
"Got a bit of a surprise for you, son," he said. His smile was almost shy as he gave Dudley the envelope.  
  
Dudley was surprised to see that the envelope was addressed to him. He opened it.   
  
"What do you reckon, son?" asked Vernon Dursley. "It's a great opportunity -- a chance to pick up some really worthwhile skills."  
  
At the top of the letter was the red Grunnings logo:  
  
Dear Mr Dursley  
  
Grunnings has great pleasure in inviting you to our forthcoming Parent  
  
and Child work shadowing day. This is your chance to learn all about the   
  
highly skilled and responsible work your father/mother does for our company...  
  
His dad was beaming with pride. "Always hoped you'd follow in my footsteps, go into the drills business."  
  
Dudley didn't find the prospect of learning about drills all that gripping. But at least it was something sensible. Something normal.  
  
"Sounds great, dad," he said.  
  
Vernon Dursley insisted on carrying Dudley's suitcase up to his room for him. He put the suitcase down on the bed.   
  
"Little welcome home present for you over there, son," he said, nodding in the direction of the computer desk. He gave Dudley a friendly punch in the arm and then left him to get on with unpacking and changing out of his Smeltings uniform.  
  
Dudley opened his suitcase. On top of everything, lay the Smeltings stick. He took the stick out and propped it up in the corner next to his computer. On his desk, by to the computer keyboard, he saw a shiny box emblazoned with pictures of muscular men and bikini-clad women brandishing knives and guns. The words "Mega-Mutilation 4 for the PC" were picked out in metallic red foil. He smiled. He was home. Everything would be OK. He could spend the summer playing computer games and learning about drills. He didn't have to be a freak if he didn't want. He could choose to be normal. Couldn't he?  
  
He took off his maroon and orange uniform and hung it up in his wardrobe. Figuring out what to wear instead was going to be a problem. Not that Dudley was particularly interested in clothes, but now everthing he had was several sizes too big and rather short in the leg. While he was trying to decide on the least embarrassing option, there came a knock at the door.  
  
"Go away," he shouted. "I'm getting changed."  
  
"Like anyone wants to see that," came the sarcastic reply. It was Harry.  
  
Quickly Dudley pulled on an old pullover and sweat pants. He opened the door, scowling. "What do you want?"  
  
Harry took in the outsize clothes. "Oh, cool look," he said.  
  
"Yeah," said Dudley. "You're my style guru. Didn't you know?"   
  
Harry smiled faintly as he pushed his way into Dudley's room.  
  
Dudley was outraged. "What do you think you're doing? No one said you could just barge in here!"  
  
Harry sighed. "You mean you want me to wait till we're all sitting down to supper before I ask how long you've been able to do magic? Fine!"  
  
Dudley's eye twitched slightly at the mention of the M word, but he gave Harry a threatening stare. His voice didn't betray any trace of the anxiety that was making the hairs on his arms stand on end. "That's rubbish! You're the only freak round here!"  
  
Harry glared back defiantly. Dudley felt uneasy. For the past few years, Harry had been getting less and less easy to push around. Maybe this was the year he started pushing back. "You know what I'm talking about," Harry said. "That lorry missing us was nothing to do with me. I didn't even see it coming." He shrugged. "All I'm saying is you'd better not use any magic round here. Because I'll be the one who gets blamed!" With that, he let himself back out of Dudley's room.  
  
"You're breaking my heart," Dudley called after him. But he suppressed a smile. He wasn't going to use his freak powers again. Not if he could help it. But there was no reason to tell his cousin that.   
  
Even his mum giggled when Dudley came back down to supper.  
  
"Oh, Diddykins! I can see we're going to have to get you some nice new clothes," she said. "You've grown so much this year!"  
  
"And shrunk," said Harry quietly. Vernon Dursley turned his enraged rhino look on Harry and Harry turned his attention back to cutting up the very small piece of dry toast on his plate.  
  
Dudley looked at his plate of dry toast. He had a bigger slice than Harry, but even so -- dry toast! His expression brightened as his mother brought a pan to the table. "Great!" he said. "Fried eggs!"  
  
"They're poached sweetheart," his mum told him, placing the larger of two eggs on top of his toast. "Fewer calories that way."  
  
"Oh." Dudley felt a little disappointed. "Any bacon to go with them?"  
  
His mum shook her head. "Actually, angel, your father and I are thinking of going vegetarian. The doctor told your dad he's got to look after his heart."  
  
"Vegetarian?" Dudley was horrified. Visions of sausage sandwiches, roast chicken dinners and beef and mushroom pies melted away, replaced by a marching band of carrots and celery sticks. "You must be kidding! No way am I going vegetarian!"  
  
At that moment the pan flew out of Petunia Dursley's hand and hit the wall.  
  
Vernon Dursley was on his feet and over to Harry's side of the table in a flash. He dragged Harry out of his chair and began shaking him.   
  
"Up to your ruddy tricks again, are you?" he shouted, spraying toast crumbs over Harry. His face had turned purple again. "Think that's funny, do you?"  
  
"Why would I?" Harry shouted back at him. "I didn't even get my egg!"  
  
"Vernon, remember your heart," said Petunia Dursley. Her voice trembled. She sounded like she was at breaking point.  
  
Dudley watched, horrified, as his dad began shaking Harry like a rottweiler with a rabbit. "I didn't do it!" shouted Harry. He sounded more angry than scared. "It wasn't me, it was Dudley!"  
  
Silence fell.  
  
"Liar!" said Dudley, trying to look shocked.  
  
But, just for once, his dad didn't seem sure whom to believe. He released his grip on Harry and turned to Dudley. "You didn't, did you, son?"  
  
"Dudley wouldn't, would you dear?" said Petunia Dursley in a small, hopeful voice.  
  
"Wouldn't? He couldn't, Petunia!" boomed Vernon Dursley, but he too sounded more hopeful than certain. "Because my son's not a ruddy freak like some I could mention!"  
  
"Fine," said Harry, brushing toast crumbs off his green pullover. "He's a danger to himself and to the rest of you, but you're going to ignore it because you don't want to face the truth."  
  
His parents turned to look at him now, their expressions a mixture of shock and disappointment. "Look, I didn't do it on purpose," said Dudley. His tone was sulky now. "So get off my case, OK?"  
  
Vernon and Petunia Dursley exchanged worried looks. "Son," said his dad at last, "There's something I think you should see." His hand shook as he unlocked his desk once more and took out a yellow parchment envelope addressed in emerald-green ink.  
  
Dudley took the envelope. It was addressed to him. He turned it over. The sealing wax was still intact, embossed with the Hogwarts crest, but the seal itself had been broken away from the letter.   
  
He'd already guessed what the letter would contain, but he read it anyway just to be sure. His invitation to attend Hogwarts as a student.   
  
The letter had a worn, creased look about it. As though someone had carried it around in their pocket for ages. Dudley looked at his parents suspiciously. "Someone's opened it. When did you get this?"  
  
His mum was sobbing. "We only kept it from you because we love you," she was saying over and over.  
  
"It came four years ago. Just before his first letter did," said Vernon Dursley jerking his head towards Harry. "As soon as your mother saw it she knew what it was. You were only a kid, son. We opened it and wrote back telling them we'd put your name was down for Smeltings and that was final."  
  
"So how come I didn't get millions of letters like he did?" said Dudley. Not that he would have wanted millions of letters offering him a place at some school for freaks. Still, he couldn't help feeling a bit jealous all the same.  
  
Vernon Dursley shot Harry a bitter look. "Turns out his name had been down for years," he said hoarsely. "Parents' wishes. We had no say in it, even though we were the ones to feed and clothe him all these years."  
  
"You'd never shown any signs of being abnormal, angel" his mum added. "So we hoped it was all a mistake. My si-- Your dead aunt, she knew there was something... Long before she got the letter."   
  
"Same with me," said Harry who had been wistfully watching his poached egg slide down the wall. "I didn't know the weird stuff I could do was magic, but I knew I was doing something." He smiled wryly at Dudley. "Guess you're not going to notice if you can get everything you want without magic."  
  
"Did we do the wrong thing, sweetheart?" asked his mum. She took a screwed up tissue out of her sleeve and wiped her nose with it.  
  
Dudley hugged her. "No mum. You did the right thing." Over his mum's shoulder, he scowled at Harry who was watching the scene with more interest than sympathy. "Tell you what. Let's go shopping tomorrow and you can help me choose my new clothes for when I go to Grunnings with dad. I don't want to be a freak. I want to learn about drills. I want to be normal."  
  
+++  
  
All characters belong to JK Rowling. 


	2. The Smeltings Stick

2. THE SMELTINGS STICK  
  
The next morning, the mood at number 4, Privet Drive was as subdued as the grey sky which seemed to blanket the whole of Surrey.  
  
Dudley and his parents were getting ready for a day's shopping in London. As well as buying him some new clothes, Dudley's mum and dad wanted to pick out some presents for his birthday, which was less than a week away.  
  
Because he had nothing else presentable to wear, Dudley was dressed once more in his school uniform.   
  
"After all, you can't been seen out in those raggy old things," said his mum, throwing one of Dudley's old pullovers to Harry. Harry caught the pullover and, for some reason, did a little dance. "I'm free, I'm free!" he sang in a squeaky voice. When he caught Dudley staring at him, Harry turned away, laughing. No, thought Dudley. I'm definitely normal compared to him.  
  
"Don't forget your Smeltings stick, Dudders," said his dad as he came downstairs. "See, I've brought it down for you."  
  
"Oh, I don't think--" began Dudley.  
  
"Nonsense, son" boomed his dad. "Your uniform's not complete without your Smeltings stick!"  
  
So Dudley took the Smeltings stick and tucked it under his arm.  
  
"Can I come in the car with you?" asked Harry. Petunia Dursley flinched and made a little whimpering noise, while Dudley and his father stared at Harry in astonishment. "Not to come shopping," said Harry quickly. "Just to go to London. I thought I'd visit a friend of mine."  
  
The Dursleys looked at one another. They'd met a few of Harry's friends in the past and hadn't hesitated to make their opinions of _those people_ clear. But today no one seemed to want to raise the normally popular subject of freaks and weirdoes.  
  
"If you must," grunted Vernon Dursley. Harry followed them out to the car and got into the back seat next to Dudley.  
  
It was June and, in spite of the gloomy weather, London was at the height of its tourist season. Even on quiet days, the Oxford Street shopping district was normally busy. Today it was so packed that the Dursleys and Harry could barely move one step to the left or right as they made their way through the crowds.   
  
Dudley didn't like crowds. They made him feel trapped and he was sorely tempted to put his Smeltings stick to work. He'd fallen behind his mum and dad and was almost as far back as Harry.  
  
"You Muggles have some very wise sayings!" said a voice behind him. "You really can feel lonely in a crowd!" Dudley turned to see a balding red-haired man beaming at him with unnerving enthusiasm. "Dudley, isn't it?" said the man, "I'd know you anywhere! My, but you've grown! I don't suppose you remember me, do you...? Arthur Weasley!"  
  
Arthur Weasley put out his hand and Dudley shook it apprehensively. They'd come to a standstill in the middle of the street and other shoppers were pushing past bad-temperedly, but Mr Weasley didn't seem to realise there was a problem. Dudley hadn't remembered Mr Weasley's name, but he recognised him instantly as the father of the boys who'd tricked him into eating a tongue-expanding sweet the year before. Mr Weasley had been very apologetic and in the end had managed to shrink Dudley's tongue back to its proper size, but seeing him again put Dudley on his guard.  
  
"Um..." Dudley said, feeling rather stupid.  
  
"And how's Harry?" asked Mr Weasley.  
  
"Fine!" said Harry, who had just appeared behind them. "What are you doing in the Muggle world, Mr Weasley?"  
  
"Oh, research!" replied Mr Weasley airily. "You can't work with Muggle artefacts if you don't understand how they're sold. As a matter of fact, I'm writing a report on instances of Muggle swimwear being affected by transparency curses when it comes in contact with water..."  
  
"How's Ron?" asked Harry. "I'm on my way to Diagon Alley see him right now."  
  
Mr Weasley beamed. "He'll be pleased to see you. He and Ginny have been very busy, helping out Fred and George -- you remember Fred and George, Dudley?" Dudley grunted. As if he could forget! Mr Weasley continued, "Well, the twins have started up a stall in Diagon Alley market selling their jokes this summer. Ron's been working with them most days. It'll be nice for him to catch up with his friends. Will it be your first trip to Diagon Alley?" This last question was directed at Dudley.  
  
"No," said Dudley. "I mean --" He couldn't seem to get the words out. He felt as though he'd eaten a whole bag of ton-tongue toffee.  
  
"Dudley's shopping with his parents," explained Harry.  
  
"Oh, that's splendid!" Mr Weasley looked around as if he expected to spot the Dursleys somewhere in the crowd. "I must say hello to them!"  
  
Dudley grimaced at the thought of letting Mr Weasley anywhere near his parents again. Judging by Harry's expression, they were agreed on that matter at least. But the crowd didn't seem to be moving any more.  
  
"What's going on?" said Harry. He jumped up, trying to see what was going on over the sea of heads. Mr Weasley wasn't having any better luck. Dudley, being a little taller, could just about see what was going on further down the street.   
  
"The street's been barracaded off," he said. "The police are here. It looks like a bomb scare."  
  
The crowd was getting restless as more and more people realised they couldn't move forward. Some of them tried to turn back and fights broke out here and there as others took offence at being pushed out of the way.   
  
Dudley, Harry and Mr Weasley were pinned against the glass shop front of a store selling beachwear of all kinds.  
  
"What is a bomb scare, anyway?" said Mr Weasley. He seemed quite excited to be caught up such a dramatic Muggle event.   
  
"It's like, terrorists blowing stuff up," said Dudley. Mr Weasley's polite but confused expression told him that the explanation wasn't very helpful.  
  
"Kind of the Muggle version of Avada Kedavra," explained Harry.   
  
Mr Weasley looked shocked. "What are we doing still here?" he said. He looked round suspiciously at the surrounding people. "Are all these Muggles terrorists?"  
  
"No," said Harry, "but you're right, we need to get out of here as soon as possible." As he said this, a man in a business suit stumbled and fell against them. When he regained his balance, he turned on Mr Weasley with a murderous expression on his face.  
  
"You need to disapparate," said Harry quietly.  
  
"I can't leave you boys..."  
  
"Yes, you can. You have to!"  
  
Mr Weasley looked worried. "Not in front of all these Muggles," he said.  
  
"You call us something, slaphead?" said the man. He wasn't alone. A few of his friends, all dressed for the office, gathered round.  
  
Mr Weasley seemed to experience a change of heart. "We can all get out of here," he whispered. "You got your wand, Harry?"   
  
"Yup," said Harry, removing it from inside his coat.  
  
"And I see Dudley has his," said Mr Weasley.  
  
"Huh?" said Harry and Dudley in unison.  
  
"Muggles don't have wands," said Harry.  
  
"But, surely--" Mr Weasley's voice trailed away.  
  
Dudley suddenly realised what Mr Weasley was looking at. "It's my Smeltings stick," he said. "It's for hitting people with," he added, wondering how long it would be before Mr Weasley got to witness a demonstration of the Smeltings stick in action. The smartly dressed gang didn't seem like they were about to back down. In fact they were getting angrier by the second. One of the men shoved him in the chest. That was one of the worst things about being tall. Everyone wanted to fight you, even when you weren't in the mood. Suddenly Dudley was glad he'd brought the stick with him.  
  
"This is terrible," said Mr Weasley. He sounded genuinely concerned. "We really need three wands to make a triangle. I suppose two might work at a pinch, but..." He looked at the Smeltings stick thoughtfully. "It's oak, isn't it?"  
  
"Is it? I dunno," Dudley wasn't paying much attention to the conversation. He and the man were busy shoving and glaring at one another. The man had said something about Dudley's school uniform. Apparently he thought the orange knickerbockers were an indication of Dudley's inability to beat him to a pulp. Dudley was about to prove him wrong.  
  
"Oak's a pretty good conductor of magic," said Mr Weasley nervously. "Look, pay attention Dudley," Sighing, he fixed Dudley's attacker with an immobilisation charm. The man fell to the ground. Dudley stared in disbelief. "OK," said Mr Weasley. "That'll hold him for a few seconds! Now hold your wand -- OK, stick -- just so. And Harry too. Good. Now..." Mr Weasley took a deep breath and cried, "Domosalta!"  
  
The three of them disappeared.  
  
As far as Dudley could tell, one minute he was standing in the middle of a fight on a crowded West End street, holding up the Smeltings stick so it formed one side of a wooden triangle. The next, he found himself standing in the tiny foyer of an old-fashioned looking shop with Harry and Mr Weasley.   
  
Shafts of light streamed through the shop's tiny windows and specks of dust danced in the sunbeams.  
  
"Unbelievable!" said Mr Weasley.  
  
"Why are we in Ollivander's?" asked Harry. "Was that meant to happen?"  
  
Mr Weasley rubbed his bald patch thoughtfully. "Well, if we'd been using three wands, it's exactly what should have happened," he said. "Domosalta is a spell we use in the Ministry to check where wands have come from. It forces the wand of the spellcaller, mine in this case, to take us to where it was made. Very useful with all the illegal imports knocking about these days. But --" Mr Weasley shook his head. "I'm surprised it worked so well with a -- what do you call it? -- Smeltings stick?"  
  
Dudley was also surprised -- and a little horrified -- by what the Smeltings stick had achieved. He looked at it as though it had turned into a snake in his hands. What else might it do when he least expected? He decided he'd have to hit people with it more gently in future.  
  
"I do wish you Ministry people would ring a bell or something when you Domosalta into my shop," came an irritable voice from the back of the shop. "How am I supposed to know you're here?"  
  
An old man appeared from behind a black curtain that separated the stockroom from the front of the shop. "Ah, it's you Weasley. I might have guessed! And... Harry Potter? Nothing wrong with that wand of yours, is there?"  
  
"Hullo again, Mr Ollivander," said Harry.  
  
"And you must be Harry's cousin," said Mr Ollivander. His silvery eyes smiled. "Dudley, isn't it?" He nodded towards the Smeltings stick. "Nice to be able to put a face to the wand at last!"  
  
"This?" said Dudley, puzzled. "It's not--"  
  
"I think I know my own handiwork when I see it," Mr Ollivander said briskly. ("Ah!" said Mr Weasley) Mr Ollivander took the Smeltings stick and examined it with affection. "Ah yes, oak with dragon heartstring, unusual design, as requested by Dumbledore. Didn't want you going off to that Muggle school of yours without a wand at least. It's served you well, I hope?"  
  
"I hit people with it," said Dudley. He thought that probably wasn't the right thing to say.  
  
Mr Ollivander took a sharp breath and muttered something about trendy parents who insisted on sending their children to Muggle schools. Mr Weasley looked a bit shocked too, but he was more optimistic.  
  
"The boys are off to meet up with Ron now," he told Mr Ollivander. "I'm sure spending time with Harry and my kids will get Dudley more confident with magic in no time!"  
  
Dudley and Harry looked at one another, each grimly resigned to the other's company, at least until Mr Weasley left them. As soon as that happened, thought Dudley, he'd get Harry to show him how to get back into Normal London. Then he could see if he could find his mum and dad in Oxford Street, or, failing that, make his own way back to Surrey.  
  
But Mr Weasley didn't seem to be in any hurry to leave them. "Tell you what, boys," he said as they left Ollivander's. "We'll go and pick up Ron and Ginny at the market stall and then I can take you all to lunch at the Leaky Cauldron."  
  
Diagon Alley market was like no market Dudley had seen in his life. Instead of normal pullovers and trousers, the stalls displayed robes of all colours and fabrics for sale. Many stalls sold jars of mysterious powders and potions whose purpose Dudley couldn't even begin to guess. And everywhere, absolutely everywhere, the strangest people he'd ever seen were calling out their wares, trying to get him to buy.  
  
When they approached Fred and George's "Wizard Wheezes" stall, the twins were busy demonstrating a pair of Self-Reversing Underpants to a knot of bystanders. Ginny was in the middle of serving a customer and Ron was standing at the back of the stall looking glum. He brightened up a little when he saw Harry and nudged Ginny. Ginny looked up at them and dropped the customer's change into a vat of strawberry flavour Belching Blancmange. She went as pink as the blancmange as she struggled to retrieve the money from the burping goo.  
  
"Do you remember Dudley?" asked Mr Weasley excitedly. The smirks on the twins' faces told Dudley they remembered him only too well. "He's just found out he's a wizard too!"  
  
Fred nudged George, laughing. "There you go, dad. It wasn't us playing tricks with that toffee. Dudley must have enchanted it all by himself!"  
  
"He's a wizard?" scoffed Ron. "You must be kidding!"  
  
"Take no notice of Ron," said George. "He's just in a bad mood because he got an owl from Hermione today. She's gone on holiday with Viktor Krum's family. Having a lovely time, apparently..."  
  
"That's nice. Anyway, I expect you're getting hungry," said Mr Weasley. "What do you say Ron and Ginny come to the Cauldron with us and get a bite to eat?"  
  
"Best idea I've heard all day," said Ron.  
  
"Yes, run off and eat, you lot," said Fred. He put his hand to his forehead melodramatically. "Don't worry about us..."  
  
The Leaky Cauldron was just starting to fill up when they arrived. As they took their seats at a table near to the kitchen, Ron elbowed Harry in the ribs. "Look who it is," he whispered, nodding to a waitress who was carrying a tray of butterbeers to another table.  
  
As the waitress turned to go back to the kitchen, she saw them and her face broke into a beautiful smile. "'Arry Potter! And Ron! 'Ow are you?"  
  
"Hey, Fleur," said Harry.   
  
Ron's ears went pink. "Didn't know you were still in London."  
  
Fleur laughed. "Mais oui," she said. "I 'ave a job lined up for zee autumn, but right now I am living in London and waitressing 'ere at zee Cauldron. It is a good job for practising your English, no?"  
  
"Good for you!" said Mr Weasley, smiling warmly at Fleur. "Fleur, have you met Dudley?"   
  
"So what's this about a new job in the autumn..?" Ginny asked her curiously.  
  
"Yes," said Ron, "You're not the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, are you?"  
  
Fleur laughed politely and turned her attention to Dudley. "So, Dudley. 'Ow is it zat I did not meet you at 'Ogwarts last year?"  
  
"Dudley doesn't go to Hogwarts," said Mr Weasley. "He goes to a school for Muggles, isn't that right?"  
  
"Really?" Fleur's eyes sparkled as she smiled at Dudley. "'Ow very interesting."  
  
"Hm," said Dudley.   
  
Under the table, Harry kicked him in the shin. "In fact," said Harry, "Dudley's only just found out he's a wizard..."  
  
Dudley kicked him back hard, but Harry just smiled at him, unperturbed. Apparently he found Dudley's discomfort very amusing. Fleur, however, seemed fascinated. "Amazing!" she said.  
  
Dudley squirmed uncomfortably. He knew he wasn't the fat kid anymore, but why would any girl want to talk to him? And especially one who looked like Fleur? And what on earth were you supposed to talk about with them, anyway? Four years of attending Smeltings Boys' School hadn't given him many opportunities for mixing with the opposite sex. In fact, the only girls he'd had much to do with were the bikini clad warrior women of his Mega-Mutilation game and, although Fleur was better-looking than any of them, somehow he couldn't imagine her running around, stabbing and judo-kicking her enemies to death.  
  
As Fleur handed out the menus, Dudley realised he was very hungry. Last night's supper had been forgotten in the midst of all the upsetting revelations. Apart from his morning grapefruit segment, he'd not eaten since he'd had his salad yesterday, on the way home from school. On the other hand, he thought, recalling Fred and George's sweets, was it safe to eat anything from these strange people? "I'll just have some chips," he said.  
  
Fleur shook her head with a disbelieving smile. "Chips? But zay are so stodgy, so boring!" she said. "You cannot 'ave chips when I 'ave made a beautiful quiche just zees morning. Oh Dudley, do not 'ave chips!"  
  
"Quiche sounds lovely," said Mr Weasley handing his menu back to Fleur. "I'll have a slice too, if I may. And a small butterbeer."  
  
If Mr Weasley was going to try the quiche, then surely there couldn't be anything wrong with it, thought Dudley. Fleur smiled so encouragingly that he relented. "OK," he said, "I'll try the quiche."  
  
As soon as Fleur was out of earshot, Ginny giggled. "I think she likes you, Dudley!"  
  
"No she doesn't," muttered Ron.  
  
Dudley didn't say anything. He could feel his face burning. Ginny had to be wrong. Fleur was just laughing at him. She found him ridiculous, just like the twins did - even to these freaks, he was a freak.  
  
"And 'ow did you enjoy my special 'omemade quiche, Dudley?" asked Fleur as she took away his empty plate. There was a melodic little laugh in her voice as she said his name.  
  
The quiche had been beautiful. Even his mum didn't have such a light touch with pastry, Dudley had to admit to himself. And his mum would never have made quiche. It was so strange, so foreign, so... abnormal. And so delicious! But Dudley had had enough of being laughed at. Of being treated as though he was stupid by all these freaks. Of being a freak himself. "It was OK," he said grumpily, without looking at her.  
  
Fleur collected their plates and glasses and carried then back to the kitchen, looking puzzled and a little hurt.  
  
Everyone had hot chocolate to round off their meal. Afterwards, Fleur took their mugs away in silence.  
  
Dudley usually felt contented and sleepy after eating, but thinking about Fleur troubled him. He wondered whether he should apologise for his rudeness to her, but apologies weren't really his thing. He consoled himself that she was probably just pretending to be hurt in order to get a reaction out of him. Girls who looked like that must feel an incredible sense of power, he thought. He supposed Fleur found it very amusing to pretend to be interested in him. She was merely stung that he hadn't taken the bait, he decided. That idea made him feel quite pleased with his own perceptiveness. In fact, he could have convinced himself entirely that this was the case, if it hadn't been for the reproachful looks that Ginny cast in his direction every so often.  
  
"It must be quite interesting for you," said Mr Weasley. He sat back in his chair and sighed contentedly. "Going all this time thinking you were a Muggle and now..."  
  
Interesting wasn't the word Dudley would have chosen. Try humiliating, he thought. Frightening, even -- although he hated to admit it, even to himself. But as far as freaks went, he was finding it hard to dislike Mr Weasley too much. Dudley didn't want to offend him, so he just shrugged in reply.   
  
"I expect you can't wait to start practising a few spells," continued Mr Weasley brightly, nodding towards the Smeltings stick, which was propped up by Dudley's chair. "Don't worry; I expect Harry will lend you his textbooks and I'll get you Ministry clearance to practise. Ask him to show you a basic levitation spell, that's what they started us off with when I was in school..."  
  
Practising spells? Dudley couldn't believe how easily Mr Weasley could talk about the idea! Practising spells was the last thing he planned to do. What Dudley really wanted was to learn how _not_ to do magic. That way his family could return to normal.   
  
His parents had been quiet to the point of surliness when they'd set out for London that morning. Even though they seemed to appreciate Dudley's efforts to prove he was still normal, both his mum and his dad had set up invisible walls to distance themselves from him. There had been no endearments from his mum, no playful punches from his dad. It was almost as bad as being... Dudley took a sidelong glance at Harry, who, with Ron, was poring over a magazine article about something called Quidditch. No, he thought. Harry was OK. It didn't bother him a bit that he was an outcast in his own home. Did it?   
  
"I don't know..." Dudley began.  
  
"Oh, I know you must feel a bit funny about doing magic," said Mr Weasley, not realising he'd just nominated himself for Dudley's understatement of the year award, "but honestly, it's best to start sooner rather than later. You're at an age where your magic's getting strong very quickly. If you don't learn how to control it... Well, let's just say magic's a good servant, but a bad master."  
  
Dudley was unnerved to realise that the others had started paying close attention to the conversation. Ron wasn't looking terribly upset, but Ginny's expression was one of horror. He felt like telling her that, whatever Mr Weasley had meant, it couldn't be anything really bad. Except he had a nasty feeling that might not be true. Harry looked as if he was going to say something, but then changed his mind.  
  
"What?" said Dudley, eyeing him suspiciously.  
  
Harry shifted in his chair. "I was just going to say, it may not be as bad as you think. Being a wizard, I mean."  
  
"There's nothing bad about it at all," said Ron irritably. "What are you, some kind of Muggle version of a Death Eater?"  
  
"He's not a Muggle," hissed Ginny. But she too was looking surprised that Dudley could think there was anything wrong with being a wizard.  
  
Mr Weasley, however, smiled sympathetically. "It's your parents, isn't it? Not too keen on the idea, right? If you like, I could have a word --"  
  
"NO!!!" said Dudley and Harry together. Dudley looked at Harry, astonished that his freak cousin understood his mum and dad well enough to realise that much at least. Harry shrugged with a wry grin. Ginny giggled nervously, looking from one to the other. Dudley couldn't help himself. He grinned back.  
  
The "barrier" between Dudley and Harry hadn't exactly crumbled. But, even if he could, Dudley wasn't ready to smash it down completely. He was too used to making his own rules (while the Smeltings teachers weren't looking, at any rate). The idea of having to look up to Harry, of all people, as the wise expert -- of having to rely on Harry to guide him in any part of his life -- didn't appeal to him at all. But the nerve-wracking events in Oxford Street and then the relative congeniality of an afternoon in Diagon Alley had seen a hairline crack appear in the barrier's granite surface. They were just a little closer to understanding one another. Harry was still a freak, thought Dudley, but then so was he. And perhaps Harry was the only one who'd be able to understand why he wasn't jumping for joy at the discovery that he was a wizard.  
  
Even so, Dudley had hoped he wouldn't have to ask Harry how to get back to Oxford Street. He'd just go when Harry went, he decided. No need to ask for help, no need to show weakness. However, it was nearly three o'clock and he worrying how long it would be before his parents did something embarrassing like call the police.   
  
"We need to get back," he said.   
  
That was when Harry told him that was going over for dinner at the Burrow. "I won't be back till sevenish," Harry said. "Can you let them know for me?"   
  
"Perhaps Dudley would like to come with us," said Mr Weasley, not noticing Ron's outraged reaction to the suggestion. "You can call your parents and let them know where you are. We've got our own fellytone," he added proudly.  
  
"No, I need to get back early," said Dudley, thinking of the next morning's visit to Grunnings with his dad. His dad had given him a stack of brochures about all the different kinds of drills Grunnings made and Dudley hadn't even looked through them yet. Besides, although his mum and dad weren't too bad about him going anywhere, as long as he phoned to let them know where he was and when he'd be back (and when Harry was out of the house, they seemed positively relieved), he knew they wouldn't be thrilled about him going to the Weasleys.  
  
"How are you going to get home?" asked Mr Weasley. "Will you call a taxing cab?"  
  
"Yeah," said Dudley. "I'll get the underground as far as Victoria, then I can get a taxi from the rank outside the station." Then his face fell as he realised that even travelling as far as Victoria was going to be a problem. He'd been counting on going back in his dad's car. "I didn't bring any money," he said.  
  
"Why don't you take the Knight Bus?" suggested Harry. "C'mon, I'll show you how..."  
  
Outside the Leaky Cauldron, the sky looked as though it was getting ready for another downpour. Rubbish weather for June, thought Dudley, who'd started getting into tennis during his last term at Smeltings and had been planning to join the local club in Little Whinging.   
  
"All you do," explained Harry. "Is hold out your wand hand. And the Knight Bus will stop for you. Then you tell the driver where you want to go."  
  
Hesitantly, Dudley held out the Smeltings stick. Out of the corner of his eye, he suddenly noticed that someone a few yards down the street was doing the same thing. A slim, silvery blonde someone, wrapped up warmly in royal blue robes. But before he could worry about the embarrassment of meeting Fleur again, the bright purple triple-decker Knight Bus made its explosive arrival in a shower of golden sparks.  
  
Dudley had seen too many weird things that day to be surprised by the sudden and dramatic appearance of the Knight Bus. However, he was only used to Muggle buses, on which people don't normally leap out to welcome passengers on board. It was only thanks to Dudley's quick reflexes that he managed to step out of the way before he could be knocked off balance when the conductor flew out of the bus like a cannonball in a purple uniform.  
  
"Watch yerself, mate," said the conductor, laughing at Dudley's evident shock.  
  
Dudley took another step back and tried to compose himself. He could see Fleur moving towards him now -- or rather, towards the Knight Bus. He couldn't help noticing that she too seemed amused. He was torn between relief that she seemed to have cheered up again and furious embarrassment that it was at his expense.  
  
"Welcome to the Knight Bus Daytime Service," said the Purple Cannonball. It sounded like a well-practised speech. "My name is Stan Shunpike, and I will be your conductor this afternoon. Just tell us where you want to go and we'll do the --" he paused and looking over Dudley's shoulder, beamed: "Awright, Neville?"  
  
Dudley turned to see who the conducter was talking to, but Harry and the Weasleys hadn't been joined by anyone else. Ron's face was a mask of resigned boredom, Ginny was shivering a little in the chilly afternoon. There was no one called Neville anywhere in sight.   
  
"Long story," muttered Harry by way of explanation. "Hullo, Stan."  
  
Mr Weasley put an arm round his daughter. "Cheer up Ginny, we'll go back by Floo Powder. You'll be back at the Burrow, warming your toes by the stove in no time."  
  
"Where you off to today, then, Neville?" asked Stan.  
  
"Not me," said Harry. Dudley thought Harry sounded relieved that he wouldn't be going back to Little Whinging by the Knight Bus. Was it Little Whinging that bothered him, Dudley wondered apprehensively -- or travelling on the Knight Bus? "My cousin needs to get home," Harry explained.  
  
Stan grinned at Dudley. "Neville's cousin, huh? Choo live in that pretty little town wiv all the trees, like Neville does, then?"  
  
That sounded like Little Whinging, thought Dudley. He hesitated though. Who knows what craziness these people are capable of, he thought. He didn't want to end up stranded in some picturesque village, in Northern Scotland or Outer Mongolia or somewhere, that happened to look like Little Whinging, but wasn't. "Er..."  
  
"That's right," said Harry quickly. "He's going to Privet Close."  
  
"'Ere, Neville's cousin," said Stan suddenly. "That your wand, is it?"  
  
"Er, yeah," said Dudley. He was still holding the Smeltings stick out in front of him. Now he self-consciously tucked it back under his arm.  
  
"It's a big 'un, innit?" said Stan admiringly.  
  
"Of course, it's not zee size of zee wand zat matters," said a cold voice that made them both start. Fleur was standing right next to them, her arms folded, waiting to board the Knight Bus.   
  
Instinctively Dudley stepped aside for her. Fleur ignored him.  
  
"I wish to go to Fentiman Road, in Vauxhall," she told Stan imperiously.  
  
"Takes all sorts," said Stan cheekily. Then he took a second look at Fleur as she swept past him onto the Knight Bus and his whole attitude changed. "Whatever you say, darlin'," he called after her as he followed her back onto the bus. "Whatever you say!"  
  
Dudley shrugged at Harry, but Harry was looking anxiously at Stan, who seemed to have forgotten his duties as Knight Bus conductor altogether and had followed Fleur down into the bus.  
  
"Quick, get on," Harry said. "She's part-Veela. Stan's going to just forget you and drive off if you're not careful."  
  
"Part what?" Dudley had started feeling pretty comfortable with the idea of being weird, when "weird" just meant going out for lunch with the Weasleys. Now he was starting to feel out of his depth again. He didn't like it. "You do know I've no idea what you're going on about, don't you?" he snapped.  
  
"Just get on the bus!" Harry told him.  
  
Dudley got on the bus. 


	3. Magical Duelling, Dursley Style!

3. MAGICAL DUELLING -- DURSLEY STYLE!  
  
Dudley had hardly made it through the doors of the Knight Bus before they slammed behind him.   
  
The interior of the bus was furnished with big, comfortable sofas in cheerfully clashing colours -- citrus orange, cobalt blue, lime green. Evidently it was a busy time of day. Many of the sofas were already occupied -- all by witches, Dudley noticed. Many of them looked about his mum's age, but there were some younger ones too, mostly chattering together in little groups.   
  
Perhaps, Dudley thought, this meant that there were more witches than wizards. He couldn't help smiling to himself, when he thought how jealous Piers would have been.   
  
If anything, Piers was even more uncomfortable around girls than Dudley was. A girl only had to speak to him and the colour would drain from Piers' face as he tried to stammer out a reply. Even his acne would turn white, giving his complexion an unpleasant similarity to cottage cheese.   
  
Dudley could understand Piers' nervousness. He felt the same way, even if he was better at hiding it behind a brusque manner. Dudley's solution was to avoid girls as much as possible -- after all, he reasoned to himself, life was embarrassing enough, why would anyone want to set themself up for even more humiliation?   
  
What Dudley couldn't understand was why Piers didn't adopt the same evasive manoeuvres. On the contrary, Piers seized every opportunity to "impress the ladies", as he put it. The fact that he became an inarticulate, sweating dairy product in the presence of the opposite sex did nothing to shake Piers' image of himself as some kind of teenage stud.   
  
One of the reasons Dudley had become increasingly irritated with Piers was Piers' habit of dragging him into his doomed romantic schemes. Last term, for example, Piers had come up with one such idea.   
  
"Hey, Dudz!" he'd said as he bounded into the dorm last term and shoved a photocopied brochure under Dudley's nose. "We should join this!"   
  
"This" had turned out to be Madame Sandra's Weekend Academy of Dance, which was held in a church hall across the road from Smeltings. Piers' idea was that by joining a dance school they'd meet lots of girls. As a theory, it was inspired. Unfortunately, most of the people they met at the academy were other guys who'd had the same idea and Dudley had spent several mortifying Saturdays learning to tango with a stubble-jawed welder called Adam.  
  
A pretty brown-haired witch sitting on a shocking pink sofa caught Dudley's eye and looked away blushing. Dudley smiled self-consciously and ignored her. These pretty girls wouldn't have given him a second look when he'd been a blubbery kid -- he knew that. Maybe he'd changed on the outside, but he didn't feel any more powerful or confident on the inside and he didn't know how to deal with all the attention he'd been getting from the opposite sex lately. Best to just ignore it. He scanned the Knight Bus for a sign of Fleur. At first, he couldn't see her. Then he realised why. He also realised why there seemed to be more witches than wizards on the bus. Apart from Dudley and the driver, every other male on the bus was crowded around one sofa at the back of the bus. Between the jostling elbows, Dudley just about managed to see Fleur sitting in the middle of the sofa. Her face was a picture of boredom and the frantic attentions of the wizards were doing nothing to impress her.  
  
Just putting on an act, thought Dudley resentfully. He threw himself into a squashy purple sofa. To think he'd been worried about her! Not that Dudley was immune to her appeal. Far from it -- if he'd not figured out how shallow girls like Fleur were, he realised that he too would probably have been shouting and jostling with the others, vying for her attention. If beauty was a kind of glow, he thought, then Fleur's shone like a lighthouse beacon. Dudley was just glad he had the self-control and the sense to be wary of appearances. He knew perfectly well that a girl like Fleur would have laughed and turned away if he'd had the nerve to do so much as speak to her when he'd been fat. But he was still the same person inside, wasn't he? He stopped to think. Well, he'd changed on the inside in some ways too. Suddenly things seemed more complicated than they had in the past. Everything had been so simple as a little kid. Black and white. Right and wrong. Sweet and bitter. Now he was aware of all kinds of shades and flavours in between. But that wasn't why girls were suddenly so interested in him, was it?   
  
He sneaked a resentful glance in Fleur's direction and was struck by how much she looked like an animal in a trap. Doubt crept into his mind. Maybe she wasn't revelling in the attention, after all. Maybe her discomfort wasn't faked.   
  
An image flashed into Dudley's mind of Fleur, trapped inside the lighthouse of her own beauty, running from room to room, frantically searching for a way to switch the beacon off. Maybe, he admitted to himself, just maybe, she had feelings too. He looked over at her. Fleur caught his eye and looked away haughtily. His mouth hardened. So that was how she wanted to play it, was it? He was about to turn away and try to put her out of his thoughts when she looked back and mouthed one word at him which brought him to his feet:   
  
"Help."  
  
As Dudley drew closer to Fleur's sofa, he realised that all the wizards were talking at once.  
  
"'Course, you're prob'ly finkin' I'm just an 'umble bus conductor..." Stan Shunpike was saying. "Easy mistake to make, but..."  
  
"Actually, I'm the heir to a multi-billion Galleon dragon farm," a small wizard was telling Fleur shrilly.  
  
"I can show you such wonders..." an unshaven and rather disreputable-looking wizard intoned in a hoarse voice.  
  
Dudley shouldered his way to the front of the crowd. Fleur's eyes lit up when she saw him and she pulled him forward and onto the sofa beside her. If anything, she looked even more delighted to see him than she had in the Leaky Cauldron.  
  
"Gentlemen," she announced. "Zees is Dudley. My boyfriend!"  
  
"Er... oh, yeah!" said Dudley, trying to think quickly. Improvising wasn't his strong suit and he knew it. Thinking quickly always gave him a brain ache. He was happier when he could make plans well ahead of time. "So, um, shall we go and sit up closer to the front of the bus, er... darling?"  
  
He took Fleur's hand and she let him extract her from her flock of admirers. Suddenly he felt her hand pull away. Dudley turned back to see if she'd changed her mind. He felt mildly annoyed. Girls were so confusing. But Fleur was staring past Dudley. She seemed to be rooted to the spot.  
  
What now, thought Dudley impatiently. A hoarse voice spoke close to his ear. "Boyfriend, huh?"  
  
Fleur screamed. "Dudley! Regarde!"  
  
In the next few seconds, several things happened at once. The effect of this was that, to Dudley, everything seemed to be taking place in slow motion. Dudley turned his head, thinking how lucky it was that, even if he didn't know magic, he wasn't too bad at French. He saw that Fleur's crowd of admirers had fallen away into a nervous huddle in one corner of the bus. Meanwhile, the unshaven wizard had produced a wand and was pointing it straight at Dudley's head.  
  
The wizard was grinning insanely. "She doesn't want you! I could change her life! Anyone can see she's really in love with me!"  
  
"Dudley, use your wand!" cried Fleur. She sounded frantic.  
  
For a moment, Dudley felt bewildered. A flash of triumph appeared in the unshaven wizard's eyes as he opened his mouth to speak: "Cru --"  
  
But the Unforgivable Curse was no match for Dudley's lightening-fast reflexes and his finely-honed skills with the Smeltings stick which sailed through the air and came down on the wizard's head with a sickening crunch. The wizard crumpled and fell to the floor. The whole bus fell silent. Everyone was staring at Dudley. Some were still pale with shock. A few of the younger wizards looked rather impressed. Among them was Stan Shunpike, who looked as though he couldn't wait to try out that particular wand trick for himself.  
  
"You showed 'im!" said Stan approvingly. "'E won't go round cursin' people again in an 'urry, will 'e, Nev's cousin? Not on public transport!"  
  
Dudley turned to Fleur. "You OK?" he asked. She wasn't looking at all well. Without thinking, he put his arm round her, and was shocked to realise that she was trembling. Worried that he might be making things even more frightening for her, he pulled away.  
  
Fleur gave him a watery smile. "I guess you used your wand."  
  
Dudley scanned her face for any hint that she was laughing at him. He found none. "I guess..."  
  
Fleur seemed to pull herself together. "This 'ere eez my stop," she told Stan. Stan pointed his wand at a little bell which hung over the driver's seat. The bell tinkled and the Knight Bus came to a stop.  
  
"Thank you," said Fleur haughtily. She took Dudley's arm. "You must get off 'ere too Dudley," she whispered. "Otherwise, zay will not believe we are really together..."  
  
Dudley's heart sank as he remembered that they'd only been putting on an act to stop the unshaven wizard pestering Fleur. Then he flicked a glance at the wizard who was now groaning softly. He decided he probably shouldn't stay on the Knight Bus any longer than he had to. He followed Fleur to the door.  
  
"For you, darlin' -- anything," Stan assured her gallantly as Fleur and Dudley left the bus. "See ya, Nev's cousin!"  
  
"Er, yeah," said Dudley. "Bye, Stan."  
  
As the Knight Bus disappeared, Dudley felt Fleur's arm snake round his waist. He was surprised. She had no reason to keep up the pretence. On the other hand, he thought, what did he have to lose, walking along this grey and unfamiliar street in a grey and unfamiliar London suburb? Even if he was making a fool of himself, no one need ever find out. He put his own arm round her shoulders as they crossed the road to her house.   
  
Fleur leaned her head against his chest. "So you don't know 'ow to use your wand for magic, Dudley?"  
  
"Haven't got a clue."  
  
Dudley was still a week off his birthday, but he felt as if it had arrived early as Fleur opened the door of her house and led him inside.   
  
For a few moments after they'd closed the door behind them, they just stood in the hall, holding one another close. Dudley could feel Fleur's breath tickling his neck. He pulled her closer still and felt a small, happy sigh escape from her. Her hair smelt as if it had just been washed in some kind of bubblegum perfumed shampoo. It was a fresh, clean smell, but had a delicious sweetness about it. But the hall was a bit of a mood-killer. It was decorated with an ancient brown and cream wallpaper which looked like the kind of thing an undertaker might have put up on his day off. The heavily-varnished doors leading off from the hall were all closed. Indeed the ground floor had a stillness and a mustiness that made Dudley think that perhaps it wasn't used for living in at all.  
  
"My rooms are upstairs," murmured Fleur. Reluctantly, she pulled away from him and put her hand on the bannister.  
  
As he followed Fleur upstairs, Dudley was struck by the contrast between the drabness of the ground floor and the airy, welcoming atmosphere of the next floor up.  
  
"I 'ope you like it, Dudley," said Fleur. She smiled shyly. "I decorated it myself."  
  
Dudley could have guessed that Fleur's tastes had played a part in furnishing the room. The whole mood was completely different from that of the ground floor. Fleur had chosen to fill the room with the ice blues and silvers that suited both her personality and her colouring. Her rooms comprised an open plan kitchen and living room dominated by a silver-grey L-shaped sofa. Doors leading off the living room leading, Dudley guessed to a bathroom and bedroom.  
  
Fleur skipped away towards the kitchen counter, laughing. "Dudley, you must be 'ungry! Shall I bring you some cake?"  
  
It did seem like a long time since lunch, but it wasn't cake that Dudley wanted to taste just then. He caught her hand and pulled her back towards him with a meaningful smile.  
  
Fleur smiled back and tilted her head up. She closed her eyes as Dudley bent down to her. Their lips brushed. The stairs creaked. Dudley groaned.  
  
Fleur put her hand over his mouth. "Chut, Dudley. It is Madame Bouleau, my landlady. I am not supposed to bring boyfriends 'ere!"  
  
A tall and rather stern-looking woman appeared at the top of the stairs. It was a bit late to pretend he'd popped round for a slice of cake. Dudley sat down on the sofa, blushing furiously. Fleur was more composed, although she seemed to be fighting the urge to burst out laughing. "Madame Bouleau, zees is Dudley. 'E lives with 'Arry Potter in Leetle Whinging..."  
  
Madame Bouleau wasn't incredibly old or even particularly wrinkled (Dudley guessed she was in her fifties) and it was obvious that she must have been a beauty when she was younger. Even so, there was something about the way she moved her head as she watched them both thoughtfully that made Dudley think of Keith, the tortoise he'd had from being a little kid.   
  
But Keith had never had such a penetrating stare, not even when he was waiting for Dudley to cut up his tomato for him. Madame Bouleau seemed to be demanding answers without needing to ask any questions.   
  
"I'm just going," Dudley said. "Can I borrow your phone? It's just..." He trailed off as it dawned on him that the only way he'd be able to get home would be to call his dad and get him to come and fetch him in the car. Mr Dursley was already worried that his son had been unable to repress his freak powers any longer. Dudley that he'd have his work cut out to convince his dad that he could still lead a normal life, that he could still be the kind of son the Dursleys could be proud of. He'd certainly not be pleased to hear that his son had spent the day hanging around with freaks like Fleur and Madame Bouleau.  
  
"Leetle Whinging?" Madame Bouleau exclaimed suddenly. "But zat is where --" Excitedly, she bustled over to the window and picked up a ceramic box. "Fleur, is zees your Floo Powder?"  
  
Fleur nodded. She didn't look too happy about Madame Bouleau knowing where she kept her things.   
  
"I am sure zat Fleur would be 'appy to let you use some of 'er Floo Powder," said Madame Bouleau. Dudley wondered if Madame Bouleau would have been quite as sure if she'd been looking at Fleur when she was saying this. But Madame Bouleau was more perceptive than he'd given her credit for. "Come now, Fleur," she cried as she turned towards her. "You don't want zee poor boy to 'ave to walk all zee way to Leetle Whinging!"  
  
It was clear that Fleur didn't want Dudley walking anywhere, and Dudley suspected that Madame Bouleau knew that perfectly well. But it was also clear that the older woman was determined to enforce the rules of her house, while keeping the situation perfectly friendly.  
  
"OK," he said slowly. "So how does this stuff work...?"  
  
"It eez very simple," said Fleur. "When you throw zee powder in zee fire, you 'ave to say zee name of your destination."  
  
Suddenly Dudley realised that he'd seen Floo Powder in action a year earlier -- when the Weasleys had come to collect Harry. Afterwards, Mr Weasley had bricked up the Dursleys fireplace again using magic. That, however, hadn't been enough for his dad's peace of mind. Vernon Dursley had added an ornamental stone mantlepiece as an extra layer against anyone who might try to get in that way again. "Can't use that," said Dudley. He felt slightly relieved, even though he'd still have to face a journey home with his dad. "No fireplace at home."  
  
"It is no matter!" laughed Madame Bouleau. "My friend Arabella Figg 'as an 'ouse in Leetle Whinging. So when you walk into the fire, you can say 'Mrs Figg's 'Ouse', you see? And then you are almost 'ome, no?"  
  
Dudley apprehensively took a pinch of Floo Powder.   
  
Fleur laughed. "Do not look so worried, Dudley! You will be 'ome in no time!"  
  
"Do not forget to say 'ello to Arabella for me," called Madame Bouleau as Dudley threw the powder into the fire. 


	4. Woodwork

4. WOODWORK  
  
There was a loud bang and Dudley stumbled and banged his head against the chimney flue as he arrived in the fireplace. In his slightly dazed state, he thought he heard a shout of surprise from someone standing quite nearby outside the fireplace. Funny, he thought, that doesn't sound like an old lady's voice... He hoped he hadn't been sent to the wrong fireplace by mistake.  
  
But, as he stepped out of the grate, Dudley realised the Floo Powder must indeed have taken him to the wrong house. The living room was furnished in typical old-lady style with crocheted doilies and anti-macassers draped all over the place. But as the smoke cleared, Dudley had his suspicions confirmed. Mrs Figg was not there. He realised that the shout must have come from the only other person in the room. Blinking nervously as he emerged from his hiding place behind the sofa was a round-faced boy of about his own age.  
  
"W-what d'you think you're doing?" The boy's voice trembled, but, Dudley realised as he blinked the soot out of his eyes, he'd now stepped defiantly from behind the sofa and was moving cautiously towards the fireplace. He was pointing a wand at Dudley.  
  
Instinctively Dudley reached for the Smeltings stick. He knew he could be across the room and beating the boy over the head with it before the boy had time to spit out the words of a spell. On the other hand, Dudley knew all about how unsettling it could be when people just barged their way into the living room through the fireplace. If the boy wasn't too happy about him being there, he could understand that. "Um, I think I'm in the wrong place..." he said, trying to sound calm, as if this was just one of those annoying things that happen -- a bit like booking a course of dancing lessons and finding yourself doing the foxtrot with a welder. "I'm trying to get to Little Whinging. I thought this was Mrs Figg's place."  
  
The boy's expression remained guarded, but he seemed to relax a little. "It is," he said. "She's out right now. I'm her great-nephew, Neville Longbottom."  
  
"Dudley Dursley," said Dudley. He noticed a flicker of recognition in Neville's eyes. He'd obviously heard the name somewhere, but couldn't place it. "Harry Potter's cousin," Dudley added to clarify the matter.  
  
"Oh..." Neville looked puzzled. "I didn't know you were a wizard."  
  
Dudley shrugged. "I didn't know I was either till recently." He hoped to leave it at that, but Neville obviously found the subject fascinating.  
  
"So will you be going to Hogwarts next term?" he persisted.  
  
"Doubt it," said Dudley. "How would I ever catch up on that weird stuff you learn there? Took me long enough to get my head round Latin verbs."  
  
"Those sound quite useful," said Neville. But his attention seemed to be divided between the conversation and looking around the room rather fretfully, as if he'd lost something. "There's a lot of Latin words used in magic, you know. Only we don't study Latin itself, so it's hard to remember what the different spells are supposed to do."  
  
"Oh?" said Dudley, secretly amazed that anyone, even wizards, had managed to find a use for Latin. "Lost something, have you?"   
  
He was startled by a loud croaking from the coal scuttle.   
  
"Trevor!" exclaimed Neville. He knelt down to rescue a large black toad from among the pieces of coal. "I wondered where you'd got to!" He looked up at Dudley. "I'm trying to build him a place to live," he explained, nodding towards a rickety-looking wooden construction on the other side of the room. "But he doesn't seem to like it..."  
  
Dudley wasn't surprised. He'd never anything quite so badly-constructed in his life. Not even Piers had managed to botch a woodwork project this badly. "I guess you don't do woodwork either at Hogwarts," he said dryly.  
  
Neville shook his head. "We normally just use magic to make stuff," he admitted. "Only I thought the Muggle way looked easy and..." His words trailed off.  
  
"And?" Dudley stared at him steadily. He was slowly starting to accept the fact that he'd just have to get used to being around magic in some form or other. That meant facing up to whatever magic involved. Uncomfortably, he remembered a witchcraft film that he and some of the guys at Smeltings had sneaked out of school to see. In the film, the inhabitants of a creepy fishing village had sacrificed visitors in some magical ritual by burning them alive. At the time, Dudley hadn't associated it with whatever his cousin was learning at his freak school. It was just a film, wasn't it? Now he wasn't so sure. He wasn't about to let Neville get away with not explaining exactly why he thought woodwork might be an easier option.   
  
Neville looked embarrassed. "I'm rubbish at magic," he admitted at last. "Always forget which words I need to say, don't wave the wand properly, that kind of thing. So I thought I'd try another way..."  
  
Dudley frowned. Words and wand-waving? Was that really all there was to magic, he wondered doubtfully. On the other hand, Neville certainly didn't seem like the type who'd perform human sacrifices in order to conjure up a home for his toad. In fact, he thought grudgingly, Neville seemed like an OK guy. Dudley felt a bit better knowing that other people, even trained wizards like Neville, could have mixed feelings about magic. "Well, you know more about it than I do," Dudley told him.   
  
Neville seemed distinctly cheered by this thought. Then he looked back at the toad house and his face fell again. "The book made it look easy..." he said dolefully. "Guess I'm rubbish at Muggle skills too."  
  
Dudley crouched down to inspect the toad house. It looked even worse close up -- a mass of splinters and, for some reason, grit. No wonder poor Trevor wasn't keen on living there! "It needs sanding down," he said. In fact it needed a lot more besides if Trevor was to live in there safely.  
  
"But I put plenty of sand in there," said Neville. He paused and closed his eyes in embarrassment. "I guess that wasn't what the book meant, was it?" he said humbly.  
  
That explained the grit then, thought Dudley, half in amusement, half in disbelief. He shook his head. "Tell you what. My dad's really into woodwork, he's got all the tools and everything. Especially drills, he's got loads of them. Our house is just round the corner. Why don't we take it round there and try and fix it?"  
  
"Could we?" said Neville.  
  
Petunia Dursley was so relieved at seeing her son on the doorstep safe and well that for a few minutes she didn't notice Neville.   
  
"Oh, Diddykins!" Mrs Dursley was sobbing. "I blame myself, I really do! You should have your own mobile phone for emergencies like this."  
  
"Relax, mum," said Dudley, glancing at Neville and blushing bright red as he extracted himself from the embrace. "I'm fine." His mum stepped back and as he got a proper look at her tear-swollen face he felt a stab of guilt. She's been working herself into a state all afternoon, while I've been out kissing girls and getting into fights on the bus, he realised unhappily. He dug in his pocket and found a scrunched up tissue -- Petunia Dursley never let anyone leave the house without a supply of tissues. He gently used it to wipe her tears away. "Get me the kind that has a built-in TV," he said.  
  
"You're such a sweet boy, Dudley," his mum told him. She gave him an over-bright smile to reassure him that everything was all right now, really it was. That was when she noticed Neville. She straightened her apron and blinked back a few last tears, instantly transforming herself from Anxious Mum to Perfect-host Mum. "Who's your friend?"  
  
Neville was shyly standing a few paces back, on the garden path, holding the toad house in both arms. Trevor was sitting contentedly on his shoulder. He stepped forward at Mrs Dursley's question, tried to put out his hand to her and nearly dropped the toad house. Trevor lurched about, and croaked irritably as Neville tried to regain his balance without dropping the toad house.  
  
"His name's Neville," said Dudley. "He's staying in Little Whinging for the summer." He'd already warned Neville that the Dursleys were uncomfortable around magic and that it'd be best not to tell them that he was a wizard. "Fine by me," Neville had replied glumly to this. "I'm not too comfortable around it either."  
  
"Neville's come round to fix his toad house," Dudley explained. "We need to use dad's tools. Is he around?"  
  
Mrs Dursley had been gazing in bewilderment at the toad house. Dudley realised that, even though his mum had no particular interest in woodwork, even she could see it had some basic structural problems. At Dudley's question, she seemed to bring her thoughts back to her son and his friend.   
  
"He's in the kitchen," she told then holding the door wide open so they could step inside. She had to shrink against the wall to make way for the toad house as Neville passed. "Go straight through. I've just made a batch of low-calorie scones," she told them with a conspiratorial wink. "Hurry before your dad eats them all."  
  
In fact Mr Dursley wasn't in the kitchen. Dudley and Neville went through and set the toad house on the kitchen table next to the cooling scones. From the oven wafted the smell of more baking food and Dudley's stomach growled. He realised he was starving again. That was the problem with diets, he thought -- they made you think about food all the time. He took a scone and shoved it in his mouth, whole. Neville hesitated a moment and then cautiously did the same.  
  
The back door was open. It let out from the kitchen into the Dursley's back garden, where Petunia Dursley grew cabbages and strawberries. While Neville was trying to get the toad house to sit on the table without wobbling, not an easy task as he'd clearly built it without the faintest idea what a right-angle was, Dudley went to the door and looked out. His dad was there, sitting on a garden chair with his back to the house as he basked in the sunset's mellow golden rays. At Vernon Dursley's feet, Dudley's tortoise, Keith, was keeping him company and munching determinedly through half an iceberg lettuce.  
  
His dad didn't seem to hear him. Dudley continued chewing. He'd have to finish his scone before he could speak. Mr Dursley sighed softly to himself and Dudley was startled to see a foggy cloud envelop his dad's head. This was followed by a short fit of coughing. It was at that point that he seemed to sense Dudley's presence. He turned his red face back to Dudley and coughed out a greeting.  
  
Dudley gulped hard to swallow the rest of his scone. "Since when do you smoke?" was all he could say.  
  
Vernon Dursley's eyes watered painfully as he took another puff on the cigar. "Big day tomorrow, son," he said. "If Grunnings likes the look of you, you'll have a job for life!"  
  
Dudley tried not to smile. His dad was practising for tomorrow by trying to get used to the taste of the cigar today. Vernon Dursley obviously imagined them being ushered into the boardroom as Dudley was offered a job on the spot. Dudley, naturally, would accept and the Grunnings chairman would pass round cigars in celebration. Dudley cringed at the idea, although maybe it wasn't all that far-fetched, he admitted to himself. After all, his dad knew how they did things at Grunnings.  
  
"They may even offer you a job for the rest of the summer," said Vernon Dursley hopefully. Dudley's heart sank. He'd been hoping for a lazy summer, spending as much time as possible with Fleur. Maybe she'd be up for a game of tennis. Even if she didn't play, it might be fun to teach her. Taking the silver BMW out for a spin on some private land, for a little driving practice, was another idea that appealed to him. Even Harry seemed to have turned into less of a freak lately, and Dudley hoped his cousin would be up for hanging out in games arcades when the weather wasn't good enough for anything else. A woodwork project like Neville's toad house was perfect for whiling away a few afternoons. But work? Real work? He sighed.  
  
"You won't need to worry about university fees either, with a company like Grunnings behind you," added Vernon Dursley. "Grunnings takes care of its own!"  
  
As a matter of fact, it had never crossed Dudley's mind to worry about university fees. His GCSEs were a whole year away and he wasn't planning on worrying about them anytime soon either. Turning eighteen and going to university seemed like a lifetime away. He was trying to put this into words when Neville came into the garden to join them.  
  
"Neville, is it?" said Mr Dursley gruffly when Dudley had introduced them. "Well I bet Neville's given some thought to what he's going to do when he leaves school, haven't you, lad?"  
  
Neville shook his head. He looked round the garden, taking in the greenhouse, Petunia Dursley's strawberry trellis and, at the far end of the garden, the flowering rose bushes. "I'm quite interested in plants," he said hesitantly.   
  
"And woodwork," put in Dudley, glad to change the subject. "Neville's getting into woodwork too."  
  
"I tried to build a house for my toad," Neville explained. "But it didn't turn out right."  
  
"We brought it over to try and fix it," said Dudley. "Can we use your tools?"  
  
Vernon Dursley gave Neville a penetrating stare. Neville flinched under the scrutiny, but at last the older man nodded approvingly. "Probably just using the wrong tools, lad!" he boomed encouragingly. "I always say, give a person the right drill for the job and they'll have no bother! Let's go and have a look at what you've built so far..."  
  
Back in the kitchen, Vernon Dursley took one look at the toad house and his mouth dropped open. "Good grief, lad! What tools did you use to build this? A ruddy manicure set?"  
  
Neville shrugged. "I don't have any tools," he admitted. Dudley gave him a wary look. So far, his dad seemed to have taken a liking to Neville, but it was early days. Vernon Dursley was almost certainly relieved that Dudley had shown no sign of wanting to explore his new-found magic and that instead he was focussing on "normal" interests like woodwork. Even so, Neville would only have to let the m-word slip out by accident to raise his dad's suspicions. "So what I did," Neville continued, "was use the bread knife from my Gran's kitchen drawer to saw the wood -- and then I used some glue to stick the house together."  
  
Mr Dursley laughed heartily at this. "In that case," he said, "I'm amazed at how well you've done." He rubbed his hands together in a businesslike way. "Fetch my toolbox, will you, Dudders? Let's see what we can do here!"  
  
When Petunia Dursley put her head round the kitchen door an hour later, she saw the three of them putting the finishing touches to the toad house. Neville was using the power sander to smooth off the few remaining splinters, while her son and her husband busily drilled ventilation holes in the roof of the toad house.   
  
"How are you getting on?" she asked. "Neville, you'll stay for dinner won't you? I'm trying a new recipe -- reduced-fat vegetable flan."  
  
Dudley switched off his drill and went to the fridge. He took the other half of the iceberg lettuce out of the crisper drawer and put it in the toad house. He picked up Keith and Trevor, who were sitting together by the kitchen door and put them in, with the lettuce. The tortoise and the toad munched companiably as they peered out of the little window Dudley had cut into the wood with his dad's jigsaw. "Is dinner ready?" he asked.  
  
"Thank you, Mrs Dursley," said Neville politely. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and looked proudly at the much improved toad house.  
  
"Lad's got a flair for woodwork." Mr Dursley grunted approvingly. "You wouldn't have thought it to look at his first effort, would you? That's the difference the right tools can make!"  
  
Neville flushed with pride.  
  
Perhaps the Dursleys would have treated Neville with less hospitality if they'd known that he was a student of the same "freak school" as their nephew. Neville, however, seemed only too pleased to avoid mentioning the subject of magic. Instead, he kept up such a lively and interested discussion of the various kinds of drill bits and their uses with Vernon Dursley, that the latter went so far as to offer to wangle Neville an invitation to the Grunnings open day.  
  
"Thank you, Mr Dursley," said Neville, with feeling. "I'd like that very much."  
  
"Splendid, splendid," said Mr Dursley, rubbing his hands together. "You're both the kind of lad Grunnings likes. Plain, straightforward lads. Willing to knuckle down and learn an honest trade. No nonsense, no fancy airs. Just... normal!"  
  
Dudley and Neville looked at one another. Neville seemed unperturbed at Mr Dursley's wildly inaccurate appraisal and helped himself to another slice of cake, to the approval of the Dursleys. He seemed happy to be normal. But we're not really, thought Dudley, wondering how his dad could have forgotten the events of that morning. Then he remembered that the doctor had warned Mr Dursley about his heart and Dudley was glad his dad seemed to have developed a knack for putting harsh truths out of his mind. He doesn't want to remember, Dudley realised. He wants to go on thinking that we're a nice, normal family. Even if it's not true.  
  
+++  
  
All characters belong to JK Rowling 


	5. Ministry Secrets Revealed

5. MINISTRY SECRETS REVEALED  
  
Harry didn't return till late that evening.  
  
The Dursleys had turned in for the night but Dudley himself was lying awake. So much been packed into that day, it seemed to have lasted the better part of a year. New worlds and choices lay tantalisingly before him, dizzying his senses. Why did he feel so trapped? At one time, if someone had asked him what he thought the future might hold for him -- well, he'd probably have given them a good, sharp jab with the Smeltings stick. Afterwards, if he'd been of a mind to answer, he might have mentioned Grunnings, which offered its recruits generous scholarships to study engineering at university. Or possibly of his mother's suggestion that he start as a junior at the local accounting firm and work his way up. Or perhaps, just possibly, he'd have spoken of the plan he and Piers kicked around from time to time, which was to go backpacking after they'd finished their A levels. Now, it seemed, there were far more possibilities that he'd ever dreamed of. Magic had never figured in any of his plans. And girls certainly hadn't.  
  
Fleur. Her lovely face swam back into his mind. The pale fire of those blue eyes. The soft mouth he'd kissed, all too briefly. Again, he felt a sudden burst of anger. Who was he trying to kid? Why would someone like Fleur give him a second look? Magic aside, she was no different from any of the pretty girls who would walk, giggling, past the gates of Smeltings at lunchtimes. Wanting to be admired, but only from a distance. They might be persuaded to stop and talk, but only if you were tall enough, only if you were muscular enough. No losers, no dweebs and definitely no fat guys need apply. It was the only time a fat guy was invisible. In recent months, Dudley had become visible to them. Sometimes they called out to him as they passed; they'd hurry on, their embarrassed squeals of laughter ringing out across the street if he looked in their direction. But they weren't the derisive sniggers that might have been directed at him at one time.  
  
Dudley never tried to catch up with them, never tried to catch their attention. Almost a year earlier, he recalled, the doctor had told him there was a slim person inside him. Now Dudley knew that, whatever the giggling girls might think, he was still a fat person inside. Sometimes, he wanted to free that person again -- his fat self. His real self. Sometimes he just wanted to eat, to keep eating and never stop.  
  
He sat up resolutely. Maybe he couldn't choose whether or not to have magical powers, but surely he could have some say in what his own body looked like. And if Fleur didn't like him when he was fat again, well there'd be no surprises there, would there? He stepped into his slippers and flicked the light switch on. Downstairs, there was a fridge waiting for him, packed with the scones, cakes and pies his mother had baked for the month ahead. They might be low calorie, but that hardly mattered with the amount he would eat. Best of all, there was no one awake to talk him out of his plan. He wasn't hungry, but his stomach rumbled in anticipation.  
  
As he opened his bedroom door, he heard a floorboard creak. He looked down from the landing to see Harry, shoes in hand, trying to creep softly up the stairs.  
  
"You," he said, with the old disgust that would always come into his voice when he spoke to Harry. Although this time, he was more irritated than disgusted. He'd hoped Harry would stay out longer. All night, ideally. He didn't want to go through with his plan with Harry around, listening or, worse, staring and making comments.  
  
"Hey," said Harry with the same pleasant wariness as before. Dudley's anger cooled a little. They weren't close -- they weren't even friends, not yet -- but at least Harry didn't seem interested in using the shift in the balance of power against Dudley. That was something, Dudley supposed, although he couldn't really understand it. Surely Harry would want to get even after all his years of thinking he was the only freak in the house. And yet, Harry seemed quite mild, quite prepared to be pleasant, even if his manner was a little cold. But could he trust his cousin? Dudley wasn't convinced.  
  
He returned to his room and waited until Harry had finished in the bathroom. He listened for the sound of Harry's footsteps on the landing and the click of the bedroom door as Harry closed it behind him. Then, after ten minutes of silence, punctuated only by Mr Dursley's slow, rhythmic snoring, Dudley emerged once more onto the landing and crept carefully down the stairs.  
  
The kitchen floor was the old-fashioned, solid stone kind, so, once downstairs, he didn't have to worry about creaking floorboards. However, he didn't want the light from the kitchen window to be seen by anyone upstairs and so he felt his way through the darkness to the fridge.  
  
He left the fridge door open, letting its soft light guide him to the kitchen table which he began heaping with cakes, pies and biscuits. He felt a kind of wild excitement, a giddying sense of freedom -- as if he'd just discovered he could fly. Finally, he was taking control of his life. He was going to eat again -- really eat!  
  
He was just about to take his seat at the table when he heard a scrabbling somewhere outside in the garden. He froze. He listened. Then all was silent again. Cats, probably, he thought, and, dismissing the noise, reached for a large slice of blackcurrent shortcake. A loud screech just by the window made him start. He dropped the shortcake. That was no cat. Perhaps it was a fox? He peered out into the night, but there was no sign of anything out there. All the same, it wouldn't hurt to let whatever was out there know it had been heard. If it was a fox, it wouldn't be too difficult to scare off. As quietly as possible, he tiptoed to the kitchen door. Slowly, gently he unlocked it. He opened it, just a crack at first then a little wider, stifling a cry of surprise as something hurtled past him, out of the night and into the kitchen.   
  
Dudley switched on the lights and looked round the kitchen. A large, grey owl was perched on top of the fridge. It blinked disapprovingly at him and ruffled its feathers.  
  
"Out!" Dudley whispered to it urgently. He advanced on the bird, flapping his hands at it. He was pretty sure his mum would not be pleased to discover that the local wildlife was invading their home. "Go on! Shoo!"  
  
The owl clicked its beak, evidently unimpressed with Dudley's efforts to shoo it towards the door. Perhaps it would respond to being chased with the yard brush, he thought viciously. The yard brush was kept in the garden shed, which also housed Keith the tortoise and several hundred different kinds of drill bits. Retrieving it meant he would have to open the kitchen door again. He just hoped no more wildlife forced its way into the house when he did so. He took the flashlight from under the sink and slipped out of the door, closing it behind him as quickly as possible. Guided by the light of the torch, he advanced across the lawn towards the toolshed and unlocked it. As he opened to door, someone fell out at his feet. He flashed the torch at her as she lifted her blonde head and looked up at him, blushing in confusion. "Ah. Dudley."  
  
"Fleur! What are you doing here? Are you spying on me?" He helped her to her feet and she smiled and shrugged. It was a charming gesture, the way she made it, and apparently Fleur thought it would be sufficient to diffuse the situation, but Dudley wasn't in the mood for games. "No, seriously! Are you spying on me?"  
  
To his horrified astonishment, Fleur burst into tears. "Zees operation eez a complete failure!" she cried melodramatically. "I myself am a complete failure!"  
  
"Operation? What operation?" asked Dudley, feeling more confused by the second. He led her back into the kitchen and pulled out a dining chair for her. "Fleur, what's the matter? Are you ill?"  
  
Fleur smiled weakly through her tears. She took a tissue from the box he held out to her. "Dudley! Always so sympathique! But no, I am not ill. I am 'ere on Ministry business."  
  
"Ministry business?"  
  
"Zee Ministry of Magic," Fleur explained. "I am working, 'ow you say, undercover. Mr Weasley and I, we investigate ze import of illegal wands."  
  
"But..." Dudley was nonplussed. None of this was making any sense to him. "How does that bring you here? Surely you don't think..."  
  
Fleur nodded sadly. "Yes, Dudley. I am sorry. We think someone in zees 'ouse is involved in zee smuggling operations." She took another tissue, the last one, and blew her nose mournfully.  
  
No need to ask which "someone" she was talking about, thought Dudley. That certainly explained Fleur's "attraction" he reflected morosely. What an actress that girl was! As if she could ever like me! He looked at her with dislike. His only comfort was that he'd never completely fallen for any of her play-acting, he told himself. Even if he'd fallen for her. Drawing him in with melting little smiles and glances; tantalising him with kisses and holding him with the promise of more kisses to come. And all the time she'd been using him to keep tabs on Harry! He might have known, thought Dudley bitterly. And hadn't he suspected his cousin was up to something? It all made perfect sense now!  
  
"Of course, it is very possible zat 'e does not realise zat 'e is doing wrong," added Fleur hastily, and Dudley's mental picture of Harry being clapped in irons and carted off to some kind of wizard prison vanished in a cloud of reluctant smoke. In the midst of his unsurprised disappointment, he'd found a shred of comfort in the idea that if Harry was a villainous criminal then he, Dudley, would surely have had the perfect excuse for not bothering to find any common ground with his cousin. Harry would be taken away, disgraced. The memory of Fleur would fade in time. Dudley could learn everything there was to know about drills and focus his energies on being normal. But if Harry had got himself in trouble through some kind of stupid error... well, anyone could make a mistake, thought Dudley. Even a completely idiotic mistake. He was surprised to find himself taking such a charitable attitude towards his cousin, but Dudley found it impossible not to compare Harry's stupidity with his own deluded notion that Fleur had really been interested in him.  
  
He'd been too wrapped up in such thoughts to hear the sound of footfalls on the stairs, but just then the living room door opened with a soft creak. Harry was standing there in his pyjamas. "What's all the noise?" he asked sleepily. "What's that owl doing here? And why are all these cakes out?"  
  
"Er..." said Dudley. He could hardly bring himself to look at Harry and wondered how much his cousin had heard. Harry clearly sensed that. He seemed to wake up a little more and his expression was alert and intrigued, but before he could ask anything, Fleur started to sob again. The cousins looked at her and then at one another, feeling shocked and uncomfortable in the presence of such girly behaviour as crying, before Harry hunted around for a fresh box of tissues and Dudley pushed a plate of strawberry tarts in front of her.  
  
"What is it?" Dudley asked gruffly. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer.  
  
Fleur, too choked to speak, swept out her hand in an eloquent gesture that encompassed Dudley's house and all the trouble she had brought on it. After a few minutes, she added, "And now poor Mr Weasley is in prison and it eez all my fault!"  
  
There was a shocked silence.  
  
"Wait a minute," said Harry. "Mr Weasley is in prison?" The idea of Ron's affable father anywhere near the Dementors was almost unbearable.  
  
Fleur nodded, taking another tissue. Then registering the look of dismay on Harry's face, she added: "Not Azkaban. 'E is being 'eld in a Muggle police station for trying to learn about Muggle artefacts." That was bad enough. Her lip trembled. It looked as if she were building up to another noisy outburst, so Dudley took the seat next to her and patted her arm self- consciously.  
  
"There, there," he told her, wondering what that was actually supposed to mean and why anyone might feel comforted by it.  
  
Whatever it meant, it wasn't enough to comfort Fleur. She threw her arms around him and sobbed wetly on the shoulder of his pyjama top. "Oh! 'Ow I wish I 'ad gone into zat Muggle shop instead of Arthur! But no! I 'ad to investigate zee illegal wands instead! If only I 'ad gone in asking about zee transparent bikinis, it would be me in zee Muggle prison now!"  
  
Harry and Dudley caught one another's eye as they both tried to suppress smiles. Mr Weasley was in trouble with the police. This was serious. They would have to find some way to free him. But, whatever she might suppose, somehow neither thought that Fleur would have been arrested for asking about the bikinis. Both, however, could just imagine the kind of impression Mr Weasley's well meaning, but doubtless very persistant and unusual line of questioning might have had on the sales staff of the lingerie and swimwear department.  
  
The police station was shut for the night by the time the three of them arrived, which settled an argument Dudley and Harry had had while travelling there on the Knight Bus.  
  
Harry had wanted to use magic to unlock Mr Weasley's cell door. Dudley, who was determined to prove that magic wasn't the only way to get things done, was pushing the idea of talking to the duty officer and trying to persuade them to free Mr Weasley. "We can say he's forgotten to take his medication, or something," he suggested.  
  
It wasn't just a conflict between magical and non-magical solutions; Dudley thought Harry's suggestion was underhanded, while Harry was of the opinion that Dudley's method was just downright stupid.  
  
"You can't just barge your way through life," Harry said scornfully. "What if they say they're not going to release him? Then they'll be watching us too closely for us to follow through with my plan, which will definitely work, given half a chance. No, it's better if we don't draw attention to ourselves."  
  
They were still arguing as they got off the bus. Fleur rolled her eyes at them both and marched over to the locked door of the police station.  
  
"Alohomora," she said, tapping the lock with her wand.  
  
Moments later, they were inside the police station. It only took them a few minutes to find where Mr Weasley was being held, but those minutes seemed like hours to Dudley who was expecting armed police officers to show up at any moment in response to a silent alarm. Apparently, the door-unlocking charm circumvented such security measures.  
  
"Thank you, thank you all," said Mr Weasley as they opened his cell door. "Normally, I would consider this a valuable opportunity to learn more about the Muggle penal system, but I'm afraid I have a great deal of work on my plate at the moment." He stepped out into the corridor carrying his coat over one arm. "We're counting on your help to track down the source of these illegal wands, Harry," he said. "Yours too, Dudley."  
  
They made their way back to the reception desk and Dudley turned to Fleur. "When you said someone in our house was involved..." he began. Involuntarily, he looked at Harry, which made it unnecessary to finish the sentence.  
  
It took Fleur and Mr Weasley a moment before they took his meaning. When they did, they laughed heartily. "You thought it must be Harry? Harry Potter?" chuckled Mr Weasley, good-naturedly, but as if he found the idea highly fantastical. He grew serious again. "No. I'm afraid the person under suspicion is your father." Dudley and Harry stared at him in disbelief. Vernon Dursley? Mixed up in illegal magic? "Oh, we don't think he realises he's doing anything wrong," explained Mr Weasley, "He may even have been duped into taking part in the operation by someone in his workplace. Perhaps it was made to seem like part of his job, but the problem is that illegal wands can fall into the wrong hands and upset the balance of magic in a country."  
  
"Not my dad," insisted Dudley. Now that, he thought, really was a fantastical notion. "He's totally..." He can't st..." He couldn't think of a way of emphasising how unlikely it was that his father would be involved in any kind of magic-related crime that wouldn't sound as though he was trying to insult Mr Weasley. "He never seems very interested in that kind of thing," he finished weakly.  
  
"Why couldn't you just get yourself out by magic, Mr Weasley?" asked Harry, deftly changing the subject. It was a good question in any case, thought Dudley. What was the point of having magic, he wondered, if you couldn't use it for getting out of tight spots?  
  
"They confiscated my wand," Mr Weasley told them. He looked mystified. "Said it was an offensive weapon. They locked it away in that drawer," he nodded towards the cabinet Dudley was leaning against. "Could you get it for me, Dudley?"  
  
+++  
  
All characters belong to JK Rowling  
  
Dudley hesitated, wondering how he was supposed to open a locked cabinet. Luckily Fleur came to his rescue. "Did you not see 'ow I opened zee door of zee station?" she whispered. "Just tap zee lock with your wand and say 'Alohomora'."  
  
Feeling rather foolish, Dudley dealt the little brass lock the lightest blow he'd ever delivered with the Smeltings stick. "Alohomora," he muttered. He didn't expect it to work, but the drawer slid open easily. "Which of these is your wand?" he asked.  
  
"There's more than one?" Mr Weasley hurried over to inspect the contents of the drawer, while everyone else crowded round, burning with curiosity. He reached in and grabbed the two wands, slid one into his jacket pocket, and examined the other minutely. "If I'm not mistaken," he said at last, "This is one of the illegal wands in circulation. I wonder how the Muggle police got hold of it?"  
  
"Per'aps zee wands 'ave fallen into zee 'ands of Muggle criminals," suggested Fleur.  
  
"Very possible," said Mr Weasley. "Terrorists, I expect." He looked perturbed by the idea, but at the same time rather glad of the opportunity to use his new word. "Dudley, it's very important that we pay a visit to your father's workplace as soon as possible. Do you think you could arrange that?"  
  
Dudley was pretty sure he'd have difficulty persuading his father to invite Mr Weasley to Grunnings - even if he didn't mention that Mr Dursley was at the centre of a Ministry of Magic investigation into illegal wand imports. "Well, I'm going there tomorrow," he began doubtfully, "And so's Neville. (Harry snorted in surprise.) But I don't think..."  
  
"I'm sure you could persuade 'im, Dudley," said Fleur encouragingly. "With your charm." (Harry gave another startled snort.)  
  
"Or some other kind of magic," suggested Mr Weasley, who'd clearly only been half-listening while he was putting his coat on.  
  
"Don't look at me," said Dudley. "I don't know any m--, er, anything like that. Unless you count 'Alohomora' and that Domosalta thing you used to get us out of Oxford Street."  
  
"Dudley, you're a genius!" exclaimed Mr Weasley, beaming at him.  
  
Dudley was startled. "I am?"  
  
"Yes... remember," began Mr Weasley excitedly, "the spell wasn't to get us out of Oxford Street; it was to take us to where a wand was made. If my theory that the wands are being produced at Grunnings is correct, that should get us inside the building. We'll meet you there!"  
  
Once they were back on the high street, Fleur, Harry and Mr Weasley held up their wands to form a triangle, Mr Weasley holding one of the "suspect" wands from Fleur's backpack. "See you tomorrow, then Dudley," said Mr Weasley, "or should I say, later this morning! Ready, you two? Domosalta!"  
  
The three of them disappeared, leaving Dudley standing under the citric glow of the streetlamps. He looked at his watch. Later that morning was right! He'd have to go to bed straight away if he was to grab any sleep at all before the Grunnings open day. Earlier that night, he'd thought he wouldn't be able to sleep for all the strange things that had happened that day. But then things had become even stranger. Who would have imagined that he would have cast a spell. And that it would have worked the way it was supposed to. And - strangest of all - who would have thought that his father -- respectable, normal Vernon Dursley -- could secretly be a wizard -- and a wanted criminal? It seemed so improbable that Dudley couldn't even bring himself to be worried on his father's behalf. Surely that, at least, could not be true!  
  
But by now, he knew that none of it would have the power to keep him awake a second longer than it took for his head to touch the pillow.  
  
Grimly, he held out the Smeltings stick, resigned to taking the Knight Bus back to Privet Drive. 


	6. Feng Shui and Drill Bits

6. FENG SHUI AND DRILL BITS  
  
Harry might have thought Petunia Dursley was a nosy woman, but in Dudley's opinion his mother was positively self-absorbed compared to some of the residents of Privet Drive, who had taken the concept of "Neighbourhood Watch" to the kind of extremes more commonly associated with Stalinist Russia than suburban Surrey. To avoid the scrutiny of these vigilant neighbours, he slipped down the dark, untended ginnel that ran behind Privet Drive. Finding his way more by memory than sight, he swung himself over the fence that separated the ginnel's population of dandelions from his father's strawberries and cabbages, and hurried through the moonlit back garden, entering the house by the kitchen door.  
  
Inside the kitchen, a pair of obsidian eyes glinted at him -- impatient, accusing and just a little guilty. Dudley sighed and flicked on the light. "Still here, then?" The owl had left its refuge on top of the fridge and was standing on the pine kitchen table. It tried to click its beak reprovingly at him, but the effect was rather spoilt by the pastry crumbs and strawberry jam sticking to its feathers. The owl looked rather more bloated than it had earlier and was surrounded by the ruins of several fruit pies -- further evidence of how it had found an outlet for its chagrin at being locked in the kitchen.  
  
Remembering his earlier plans for the food, Dudley felt a mixture of shame and frustration. Shame that going back to binging had seemed like a plan for taking control of his life and frustration that he hadn't even had the chance to put the plan into action. And now he would just have to put everything back in the fridge. Fat or thin, it didn't seem to matter. Fleur hadn't been interested in him, she'd simply been investigating the illegal wands which, it seemed, were being imported from somewhere and distributed by Grunnings. By Vernon Dursley of all people! Dudley couldn't decide which was more amazing -- that his father was a wizard or that he was a criminal! The plump owl ruffled its feathers, looking pleased with itself.  
  
"Gerroutofit!" Dudley grumbled, waving the Smeltings stick threateningly in its direction. The owl flopped heavily out of the way, just in time to avoid a shower of red and gold sparks. Dudley stared open-mouthed at the Smeltings stick. He had to keep reminding himself to be careful with it. To be careful of his own magic.  
  
"Wands seem to be behind all my problems," he remarked to the owl and he carefully placed the Smeltings stick on the draining board, where, hopefully it could do no damage.  
  
Wearily, he began stacking the remaining pies and pastries back in the fridge. The job done, he sat down at the kitchen table and rested his head on it. His eyes felt dry and burning, as though they were full of grit. If he could just close them for a few minutes, he thought, it would give him just enough energy to climb the stairs up to his bedroom.  
  
By the time the pie-filled owl managed to flop back onto the table and push a jam-smeared piece of notepaper into his hand, Dudley was too drowsy to do anything other than curl his fingers around it. By the time the owl discovered that Dudley hadn't closed the kitchen door properly and flew off, hooting, into the night, Dudley was deep in sleep.  
  
The next thing Dudley knew, the ice-grey light of another June morning in Little Whinging was streaming through the kitchen window and washing over his face. The smell of freshly made coffee wafted towards him. Dudley groaned. Slowly, he emerged from dreamless torpor and became aware of his mother standing with her back to him as she clattered baking tins around in the sink. He didn't need to be an expert in Dursley body language to know she wasn't happy.  
  
"Why couldn't you just let me know you were hungry?" Petunia Dursley asked without turning round.   
  
Dudley looked up startled. It was extremely rare that his mother took such a sharp tone with him. Usually, when he'd done something she didn't approve of, Petunia Dursley sounded hurt or became tearful. It was because he was so used to dealing with his mother's waterworks that Dudley had felt uncomfortable with Fleur's outburst the night before. While he supposed that some people might weep through real, overwhelming emotion, tears, in Dudley's experience, usually meant he was supposed to fix something about himself or about some situation. In his mother's case, he knew her well enough to be able to guess what needed doing more often than not. With Fleur, he simply felt helpless and irritated by what he suspected was, at heart, a crass attempt to manipulate him.   
  
Petunia Dursley turned away from the sink and stood, hands on hips, an indignant silhouette in front of the kitchen window. "Well?"  
  
Using that cold voice on her own son meant she was under some kind of stress. No doubt she was still secretly fretting about the freak her only child had turned out to be. That couldn't be easy, especially when she felt unable to confide in her husband for fear of exacerbating his heart problems. Did she also suspect the truth about his dad, Dudley wondered. That would certainly upset her, he knew. He sat up, rubbing his stiff neck. Falling asleep at the table might have seemed like a good idea in the early hours of the morning, but he was suffering for it now. The irony of being blamed for the owl's fruit pie binge wasn't completely lost on him, but, having had a little over four hours' sleep, he wasn't really in the mood for discussing the matter. Not even to get himself off the hook.   
  
"Is it breakfast time yet?" he mumbled.   
  
Petunia Dursley took a bowl from the dresser and irritably threw half a grapefruit into it. She slapped it on the table in front of Dudley, narrowly missing his fingers. "Was there any need for all that sneaking around? Anyone would think I didn't feed you! And sleeping down here when you've got a perfectly good bed upstairs..."  
  
A cup of black coffee, combined with the sharp, zesty aroma of the grapefruit seemed to wake him up a little. Dudley ate quickly so that he could go back upstairs and change into his new suit before he set off for the Grunnings open day. The hot water pipes in the kitchen were rumbling, which meant that Mr Dursley was in the shower. Neville was due to arrive at any moment.  
  
When he'd finished his grapefruit, Dudley put the bowl in the sink and raced to the stairs. He put his hand on the bannister and stopped. He looked from the bannister to his hand, in dismay, comparing the heart-jolting smear of crimson on the white paintwork with the one on his palm. How had he managed to cut himself, he wondered, before he noticed a little black seed suspended in the gore. Tentatively, he licked his hand. Strawberry jam. He couldn't remember how it had got there. Could he have been sleep-eating? It was perfectly possible, he supposed, with all those delicious pies so close by as he slept. Just my luck, thought Dudley gloomily. If I'm going to break my diet, why can't I at least be awake to enjoy it?  
  
He wiped the bannister with his pyjama sleeve and continued upstairs. His dad had finished in the bathroom, so there was time for Dudley to wake himself up with a quick shower before he changed into the charcoal-grey suit his mum had picked out for him in Oxford Street.  
  
He was just thundering down the stairs when the doorbell rang. "That'll be Neville," he shouted to his parents and went to answer the door.  
  
On the doorstep, Neville looked smart, if a little old-fashioned in a pinstriped suit that someone had evidently stored carefully since the 1940's.   
  
"I don't have many Muggle clothes," Neville admitted, squirming and tugging at the lapels of his jacket. It was probably just nerves, but it gave him the appearance of a Hollywood gangster-in-training. "Did you get my owl?"  
  
"Owl?" Dudley blinked at him stupidly for a moment before he recalled the feathery dustbin from the previous night. "Oh. That was your owl? I shut him in the kitchen, but I think he escaped. Why did you send him here anyway?"  
  
Neville gave him a very curious look before nodding slowly. "That explains why he didn't return till four in the morning. Still, at least you got my message."  
  
Somehow, Dudley couldn't see the connection between owls and messages. Owls and disappearing fruitcakes, now that made sense, but... what was Neville talking about? He shook his head as if trying to clear away the clouds of his ignorance. "You sent me a message? What did it say?"  
  
Neville was about to answer when Petunia Dursley poked her head round the kitchen door. When she saw Neville, her face broke into a rather forced smile. She still seemed stressed, but was making a valiant effort to hide it. "Oh, hello Neville, dear. Would you like some breakfast?"  
  
"Better make it sharpish if you do," said Vernon Dursley trotting down the stairs, looking very brisk and businesslike. He was wearing his best navy-blue suit and -- dear heaven, thought Dudley -- a purple bow tie. Dudley hadn't worn a bow tie since he was twelve and didn't plan to again if he could help it. He fervently hoped this had been a style choice on the part of his father and not some kind of dress code that Grunnings imposed on its employees for special occasions.  
  
"No, thank you, Mrs Dursley," Neville told her. "I've just had breakfast with my Gran."  
  
"In that case," said Vernon Dursley jangling the keys to his silver BMW, "let's set off for Grunnings, shall we?"  
  
At the last minute, Mrs Dursley announced that she too wished to attend the Grunnings open day.  
  
"I'll just put on a good dress and a dab of make up," she told them before hurrying upstairs.  
  
Vernon Dursley watched her go.   
  
"Women, eh?" he chuckled to Dudley and Neville who were sitting at the pine kitchen table drinking coffee. "Can't live with them, can't live on takeaways for the rest of your life." But he was quite obviously pleased that his wife was coming along. Vernon Dursley had never really got over the astonishment and delight that Petunia Evans had agreed to marry him and he always loved an opportunity to show her off to his friends and colleagues. Dudley had gradually come to realise this over the past year or so. Although he found this insight into his parents' feelings fairly nauseating, it was, at the same time profoundly comforting. It gave him a tiny glimmer of hope that someone, someday might just feel the same way about him.  
  
It wasn't until they'd piled into the BMW and were waiting for the lights to change at the intersection just outside Little Whinging that Dudley managed to fit his last drowsy memory of the previous night together with Neville's question about the note.   
  
That explains the strawberry jam, he thought as the vague memory of the sticky-feathered owl pushing a piece of notepaper into his hand swam back into his mind. And I guess that note was the message Nev sent me. But what had the note said? And where was it now? Most probably, Dudley thought, he'd dropped it in his sleep and it had fallen onto the floor. It could even be there still, assuming his mother hadn't spotted it and thrown it into the rubbish compacter under the sink.  
  
He and Neville were travelling in the back of the car, so Dudley nudged him. "About that note?"  
  
Neville looked a bit startled. He nodded towards Vernon Dursley and shook his head to show that he wasn't about to explain in front of Dudley's father. That probably meant it had something to do with magic, Dudley thought.   
  
"Anyway, it's not important now," Neville said reassuringly. "It looks like everything's working out all right."  
  
On another occasion, Dudley might have pondered this cryptic remark. At that moment, however, Neville's note did not have the monopoly on his concerns. What, if anything, had Fleur, Harry and Mr Weasley learnt from their investigations, he wondered. Had they made it to Grunnings? Were they still there? Whatever they'd discovered, he was sure that none of it would implicate his father in any way. Vernon Dursley might have his faults -- it was telling, thought Dudley, that neither of his parents had thought to wonder where Harry was that morning -- but he was no lawbreaker.  
  
If Fleur and the others were still at Grunnings he'd find out a few answers soon enough, Dudley realised as the BMW turned off the main road and swung round into the directors' car park. A large red and white sign announced that the granite monolith looming above them was the headquarters and hub of operations for H. Grunnings (Ltd) Drills (established 1968)  
  
Vernon Dursley held open one of the large glass doors at the front of the Grunnings building and ushered everyone inside. Dudley looked around. The whole reception area was an interior designer's masterpiece of sand-coloured tiles and gleaming black formica. There was an enormous black leather sofa where visitors to the company could sit while they waiting for Grunnings directors to come down and meet them. On the walls were large, artistic photographs of various models of Grunnings drills in sand-coloured frames. There was no sign of Fleur, Harry or Mr Weasley.  
  
"Well," said Vernon Dursley with a note of pride in his voice. "What do you think?"  
  
"Lovely," said Petunia Dursley. She still sounded a bit tense, but she was making an effort to enjoy the visit.  
  
"It's beautiful," said Neville reverently. "Do they really make drills here?"  
  
"Make and _design_ them, Neville my lad," said Mr Dursley clapping Neville on the shoulder. "I'll take you down to the workshops later on and you can see how we do it. You're very quiet, Dudders. What do you reckon?"  
  
"Looks great," said Dudley, but his mind wasn't really on the magnificence of the Grunnings reception. He had the uncomfortable feeling that some wizards might pop up and arrest his father at any moment. What that might do for Vernon Dursley's heart problems, he didn't like to think.  
  
"It's just been refurbished," continued Mr Dursley, looking round happily, oblivious to any danger he might be in. "Harold Grunnings hired one of those feng shui consultants to work with the designers. Load of old codswallop, I thought at the time. I told him so. But I don't mind admitting I was wrong in this case. Speaking of the old Grunner, shall we go and pay him a visit now?"  
  
"Actually," said Petunia Dursley, "I'd like to put my bag and coat in your office first. Is that all right, Vernon?"  
  
"Of course," said Mr Dursley, "While I'm there, I can pick up those reports for Dominique to type up. Give you a chance to see your old dad at work, Dudders," he added with a wink.  
  
They took the lift up to his office on the fourth floor. This gave Vernon Dursley ample opportunity to introduce his "lovely wife, my flower, Petunia" to various colleagues, while Dudley and Neville looked at their feet and looked forward to the time when they could tour the drill-making workshop. Mr Dursley's office was at the far end of the corridor, tucked away round a little corner by itself. This was because it was one of the really big offices, the kind that managing director Harold Grunnings gave to his most senior and trusted employees.  
  
"We're in a bit of a mess at the moment, I'm afraid," said Mr Dursley apologetically as he unlocked his office door. "The feng shui consultant was in here and told me to make room for a big leafy plant in the Money Corner," he pointed across the room to a giant, shiny-leafed aspidistra, "I've had to put a lot of my stuff in Dominique's office for the time being."  
  
"Wow," said Neville gazing round the office at the bookshelves that lined the walls and an intriguing collection of cardboard boxes that were stacked along the side of the far wall. "I've never seen anything like this."  
  
Mr Dursley chuckled at this, little suspecting that Neville, as a wizard, wasn't just paying him a compliment on his splendid office. He really hadn't seen a Muggle workplace before.  
  
Petunia Dursley, however, seemed more agitated than ever. She kept pacing up and down the office, looking around as if she'd lost something. It didn't help, thought Dudley, that she was standing around with nothing to take her mind off whatever was troubling her.  
  
"Shall we go and meet the chairman now?" Dudley suggested, thinking that might be a pleasant distraction for his mum.  
  
"Be right with you lad," replied Vernon Dursley, taking a handful of orange cardboard files out of his desk drawer. "I've just got to sign this lot and we'll be able to drop them off to Dominique on the way to Harold's office."  
  
"These aren't the kind of drill bits you had at Privet Drive," observed Neville peering into one of the boxes.  
  
"Oh, we make lots of different kinds of drills at Grunnings, young Neville," said Mr Dursley, not looking up from his report. "And they take all kinds of different bits. You'll learn more about that when you visit the workshops this afternoon." At last he laid his pen down on the desk. "All done. Shall we?"  
  
When everyone was back in the corridor, Vernon Dursley tucked the orange files under his arm and locked up his office again. When they were back on the main corridor, he tapped on the frosted glass panel of the first office door he came to.  
  
"Only me, Dominique," he announced in his best managerial tone as he went in, "Here's that typing I promised you."  
  
Through the frosted glass, Dudley could make out the shape of a tall, slim woman as she stood up and took the folders that his dad presented to her.   
  
"Zay will be ready within zee hour, Mr Dursley," he heard Dominique tell his dad in a strong and melodious French accent.  
  
"Thank you, Dominique," boomed Mr Dursley and Dudley moved away from the door as his father reappeared. "Right, that's that out of the way. Let's go and pay our respects to the Grunner, shall we?"  
  
The Grunner, as Vernon Dursley called Harold Grunnings, chairman and managing director of Grunnings Ltd, had his office on the top floor of the building. He, like Mr Dursley, was an Old Smeltonian. As boys, they had forged a friendship based on their shared love of football, rugby and cricket and their shared hatred of Latin syntax. When he'd founded Grunnings back in the late 60's, Harold realised he needed a right hand man. Someone he could rely on, rain or shine. As far as he was concerned, only one man was up to the job. While many of their contemporaries were growing their hair and learning to play protest songs on their guitars and harmonicas, Harold Grunnings and Vernon Dursley were busy building an empire based on drills.  
  
"Come!" boomed a voice as Vernon Dursley knocked on the door. "Ah, Dursley, good to see you, old man!" The Grunner looked up from his paperwork and scrutinised the Dursleys and Neville from under eyebrows that were as bristling as Mr Dursley's moustache. When he saw Petunia Dursley, he stood up and offered her a chair.  
  
"Actually, I'm feeling a little out of sorts," admitted Mrs Dursley. She was, indeed, looking very pale by now. Perhaps that was why he'd thought she seemed agitated, thought Dudley. His mother was simply not feeling very well. "So nice to see you again, Harold, but I think I need to get a bit of air. And maybe a coffee. I'll meet you in the canteen, Vernon?"  
  
"The canteen's on the mezzanine," Vernon Dursley called after her as she left.  
  
"And these are your lads, are they?" asked the Grunner, bristling in a friendly but intimidating way at Dudley and Neville. "You finally saw sense and called one of them Harry, I believe?"  
  
"Well, actually..." began Mr Dursley. He introduced Dudley and Neville. "They're both very interested in woodwork," he said. "And drills."  
  
"Well, he seems to like us," said Dudley when he and Neville were back out in the corridor. They walked to the lift and Dudley pressed the call button. After a little chat about drills, Vernon Dursley had sent the lads off to join their mother in the canteen while he and the Grunner lit cigars and talked about the old days. Dudley felt rather relieved the meeting was over. Vernon Dursley had made rather a lot of the fact that Dudley went to Smeltings and that he was good at sports. In fact, Dudley wasn't particularly good at most sports. Years of being the class fat kid had left him unused to playing as part of a team. He liked tennis and his new-found agility meant he was pretty good at that, but that was a game where you could play one on one -- against someone, not alongside them. "Grunnings is a big company. It's an option for when we finish school."  
  
"I think I've still got an awful lot to learn about tools," said Neville ruefully as they got out of the lift on the mezzanine. "In your dad's office I saw a box of wooden drill bits. What are they used for?"  
  
"Wooden drill bits?" said Dudley scornfully. "No such thing!" Neville had to be mistaken, he thought. What had he really seen? Dudley tried to imagine. Then the penny dropped. For a moment they just stared at one another, Neville with bewilderment and Dudley with growing horror. "Those aren't drill bits," he whispered at last. "Nev, I think you've found the wands!" 


	7. Drills and Magic Don't Mix

7. DRILLS AND MAGIC DON'T MIX  
  
"Wands? What wands?" asked Neville. He followed Dudley as he turned and raced back up the stairs.  
  
"I didn't know Muggles used wands," gasped Neville at the top of the stairs. Together they sprinted along the corridor back towards Vernon Dursley's office.  
  
In between breaths, Dudley tried to explain about the Ministry of Magic investigations. "...and Mr Weasley thinks my dad's involved -- which is insane," he said. "No way would my dad break the law. And no way would he get involved with m-- with you know what!"  
  
"So you think someone's trying to set him up?" asked Neville.  
  
"No idea."  
  
They swung round the corner and skidded to a halt just in time to avoid colliding with Fleur and Harry, who were standing outside the door of Vernon Dursley's office watching Mr Weasley who was kneeling down beside the door tapping at the lock with his wand.  
  
"Oh thank goodness!" exclaimed Fleur and her face broke into a smile that might have made Dudley think she was genuinely pleased to see him. If he hadn't known how ridiculous that idea was. "Dudley is 'ere. 'E will know what to do!"  
  
"You don't have a key, do you?" asked Harry.  
  
Dudley shook his head. "What are you doing? When I didn't see you, I thought you must have gone by now. Surely you don't still think it's my dad behind this?"  
  
Mr Weasley laughed, sounding a little embarrassed. "Actually, we've only just arrived. The spell last night didn't take us to Grunnings -- in fact we ended up in a completely different country. It was lucky Fleur here could speak the language."  
  
"France, then?" asked Dudley, looking at Fleur. She nodded.  
  
"It seems zat zee wands are being assembled in France and then dispatched 'ere to Grunnings," Fleur explained. "Dudley your father is zee only Grunnings employee to 'ave a close wizard relative. 'E would 'ave zee opportunity to make zee contacts. To visit Knockturn Alley, for example. You must see why we 'ave to investigate."  
  
Dudley sighed. He did see. He still thought the Ministry of Magic was on the wrong track, but he could understand why they'd come to the conclusions they had.   
  
"I 'ope we can still be friends, Dudley, after zees," said Fleur.  
  
Dudley looked up and was startled to see that she was gazing pleadingly at him with those soft blue eyes. Did she really mean that, he wondered. He couldn't think why else she would say it, but it put him on his guard. We'll see, he thought, whether she really wants to know me when all this is over. He turned away from Fleur and knelt down next to Mr Weasley, examining the lock. "Can't you use Alohomora again?" he asked.  
  
"We tried that," said Mr Weasley. "But there seems to be some kind of countercharm in place. Someone's made sure this door can't be opened by magic!"  
  
Dudley, Harry and Neville took turns to run at the door, hoping to break it open that way, but it wasn't as easy as it looked on TV. They were soon rubbing their bruised arms and swearing under their breath while the office door remained as secure as ever.  
  
They didn't notice the heavy footfalls on the corridor. If they'd heard the sound of breathing coming closer, they might have imagined it was the puffing of a winded rhinosceros. Just as Dudley was steeling himself for another run at the door, Mr Dursley rounded the corner, slightly flushed from the glass of brandy he'd taken in Harold Grunning's office.  
  
"What's this?" He caught sight of Harry and Mr Weasley and his expression changed from surprise to one of alarm, while his voice dripped pure, ice-cold contempt. "So what is this? A ruddy infestation?"  
  
Mr Weasley stepped forward. "I'm here on Ministry business," he said and began explaining how Mr Dursley appeared to be mixed up in the criminal activities he was investigating. However, it was difficult to tell how much of it Vernon Dursley was taking in as he turned from pink to purple in a matter of seconds and started breathing more loudly than ever. Mr Weasley noticed this and paused with a look of concern on his face. "Now I don't want you to worry. I wouldn't be surprised to find there's a simple explanation for how these wands--"   
  
He didn't get any further. "Wands?" Vernon Dursley bellowed and a dangerous glint came into his eye. "You come to my office looking for wands? Do I look like ruddy Tinkerbell to you, pal?"  
  
An efficient click of heels heralded the appearance of a tall elegant woman with an armful of orange files. Behind her, Petunia Dursley was carrying the rest of the files.  
  
"'Ere eez your typing, Mr Dursley," the tall woman was saying. At that moment, she noticed Dudley and froze, her tortoise-neck very straight, a trapped expression in her eyes.  
  
Dudley blinked. He knew he'd met this woman before, quite recently, in fact, but he couldn't place her for a moment. Fleur, however, recognised her at once and let out a little gasp of astonishment.   
  
"Madame Bouleau! Since when 'ave you worked at Grunnings?"  
  
Neville's mouth formed a surprised O. "You're Madame Bouleau? The one who sent me a note to send to Dudley?" He shut his mouth guiltily.   
  
"What note?" asked Mr Weasley and Harry together.   
  
"What the devil are you talking about, Neville, lad?" blustered Mr Dursley. "I'd have expected some sense out of you, at least!"  
  
Petunia Dursley hung her head. "It's nothing, really, Vernon," she muttered.  
  
Neville fidgeted unhappily. "I-- I don't remember..."  
  
"It's all right, Neville," Petunia Dursley told him gently. "That note was for me, not Dudley. I found it on the kitchen floor this morning." She looked meaningfully at Mme Bouleau. "I don't suppose we've any choice but to explain, Dominique."  
  
Mme Bouleau nodded, dignified and resigned. "I take full responsibility," she announced. "I 'ave used my position at Grunnings as a cover for zee wand smuggling. I 'ave used ze fact zat Fleur lives in my 'ouse to keep track of zee Ministry's work on zees case."  
  
Fleur gasped. "You 'ave been going through my stuff!"  
  
Mme Bouleau stuck out her chin. "But of course," she said with dignity. "Zat is 'ow it was possible to know about zee Ministry's investigations." Then she added, with a note of pride, "Zat is 'ow I knew I should erase my details from zee list of Grunnings employees."  
  
"There you are then, Weasley," boomed Mr Dursley. "Obviously my family had nothing to do with any of this."  
  
"Oh no, Dominique," said Petunia Dursley, seeming to gather her courage together. "We're both equally responsible. Wasn't that why you sent me the note? To warn me that the Ministry was getting closer to the truth?" She turned to Mr Weasley. "That's why I came here today. I was going to meet Dominique and somehow take the wands home without Vernon knowing about it."  
  
"Look," said Mr Weasley sounding uncharacteristically weary as he pinched the bridge of his nose, "All I need to find out is how these illegal wands are getting into the country."  
  
"I only did it for you, Diddykins!" Petunia Dursley said, taking an imploring step towards her son. "If your father," here she glanced at Vernon Dursley and her eyes became bright with tears, "if your father has to stop work for whatever reason, I wanted to make sure we could alway afford to buy you nice things and keep up with your school fees."  
  
"And I too," said Madame Bouleau, "I 'ave a young nephew who eez due to start at Beauxbatons in the autumn."  
  
There were murmurs of astonishment from Harry and Fleur. Neville simply looked dumbfounded -- he didn't know Mme Bouleau, but he was finding it hard to assimilate the information that nice Mrs Dursley was involved in an international crime ring.  
  
Dudley felt amazement, pure and simple. It was unthinkable that his mother was a criminal. But even more astonishing was the discovery that his mother, of all people, was a witch. It seemed that the same realisation had dawned on his father.  
  
"Ruddy Nora!" exclaimed Vernon Dursley with some heat. "Are Neville and I the only normal people left in the world?" But he reached out for his wife's hand and clasped it protectively between his two meaty hands.  
  
"We will go to prison, of course," said Mme Bouleau calmly. She actually seemed to be relishing the drama.  
  
Mr Weasley frowned and shook his head. "I doubt it."  
  
"But we are to be punished," said Mme Bouleau. She stuck her chin out with a fatalistic air.  
  
"I'm afraid so," said Mr Weasley seriously. "This case has cost a fair bit of time and work for the Ministry, you know. You're both looking at a fairly hefty fine, I should imagine. (Mrs Dursley whimpered) And you'll need to tell us as much as you know about your contacts in France and anywhere else this is going on." He shrugged, looking tired beyond belief. This was evidently one of his least favourite aspects of his job. "This isn't about retribution. The laws are there to keep the wizarding world safe for all of us -- we don't go round crushing people for making a foolish choice once in their lives and I don't think any judge would see you as an ongoing danger to society."  
  
Mrs Dursley was sobbing in her husband's arms. "Oh Vernon, our Duddy's education will be ruined! And it's all my fault."  
  
"Hush, Petunia. We don't know that's what's going to happen."  
  
"I'm not really bothered," Dudley assured her. "Smeltings is fine, but if it turned out I had to leave and go to a state school, I could handle that." It'd be a shock transferring to a new school, he knew, especially one with the reputation of Stonewall, but Dudley was pretty sure he could handle any trouble, with or without his little gang.  
  
"I don't suppose you've considered transferring to Hogwarts?" suggested Mr Weasley. "I daresay Professor Dumbledore..."  
  
Dudley went pale. "I don't have to, do I?"  
  
"Course not, son," barked Mr Dursley. "You're a Smeltings man and you'll never have to change schools. Not while there's still breath in my body and meat on my bones!"  
  
But Petunia Dursley was looking anxious. "I'm not so sure, Vernon. His magic -- oh, don't look at me like that, love, we've got to face facts -- his magic is getting stronger and he doesn't really know how to control it. That could be dangerous. Perhaps Hogwarts would be the best choice."  
  
Mr Weasley was quick to notice Dudley's reluctant expression and Vernon Dursley's outraged one. "Oh, I wouldn't worry about it," he told them kindly. "It's not like the old days -- Hogwarts or nothing. If Dudley doesn't want to change schools, he doesn't have to. He could take evening or weekend classes to get him up to speed on his magic. It would take a lot of work..."  
  
"And I would be 'appy to 'elp you, Dudley," Fleur added beaming. "I'm sure you would learn fast."  
  
Dudley felt cornered. Everyone was looking at him. Everyone had different expectations of him. He glanced from his dad to his mum, to Neville, Harry and Mr Weasley before turning back to Fleur. She was the worst of all, he thought. Did she ever stop thinking the best of him? Expecting him to be better than he was? "Maybe I don't want any help," he told her nastily. Ignoring the way she went pale and her lip trembled before she looked away, he pointed at Harry. "Maybe I don't want to be like him!"  
  
Harry smiled skeptically at the insult. "Because it's so great being you?"  
  
"No..." began Dudley, feeling defensive. "Yes! I'd rather be me. I'd rather grow up normal, with normal parents and..."  
  
He stopped. Harry didn't need to say a word. Dudley knew he'd said it all himself and somehow that made it even harder to bear. The fact that he wasn't normal. That his family was far from normal. That everything he'd grown up believing about himself and his family was a lie.  
  
"You're going to have more scar than face by the time I'm finished with you," he snarled, taking a step towards Harry. At that moment he blamed his cousin for everything that had gone wrong for him. He'd expected Harry to back down, but he stood his ground. As far as Dudley was concerned there was only one way forward from that point.   
  
He raised his fist.  
  
"What d'you think you're playing at, Dudders?" roared Vernon Dursley.  
  
"Harry, don't," said Mr Weasley apprehensively.  
  
Neither Dudley nor Harry took any notice. All Dudley could hear was the sound of his own pulse roaring in his ears. All he could feel was the way his skin prickled with a sudden rush of adrenaline. All he was aware of was Harry.  
  
Instinctively Harry reached for his wand. Dudley grabbed his wrist and gripped it hard.   
  
"Oh no you don't--"   
  
He stumbled back a step as Harry twisted his arm free and glared back threateningly. Dudley snorted contemptuously, to make it clear to Harry that his cousin didn't have a hope of winning a non-magical fight. He didn't feel quite as confident as he pretended to be, though. Harry had managed to free himself with less of a struggle than he'd expected. Even if he was still shorter and lighter than Dudley, he was fast. They were more evenly matched than they'd ever been before.  
  
As Harry stuck out his jaw aggressively, Dudley noticed again, briefly, the haunted look behind the glasses. Harry hadn't just grown a year older, he'd also grown several years wiser while he'd been away at that strange school of his. What strange and terrible things had he seen, what had he learned that had caused so much of a change in his cousin? Harry had always been independent and proud. Now that was tinged with a recklessness that made him a dangerous opponent. The safest thing, Dudley knew from experience, was to finish him as quickly and decisively as possible. Without warning, he punched Harry in the stomach. Hard.  
  
Dudley stepped back, swaggering a little as Harry bent double in pain. He was so sure it was over, he didn't even notice how quickly Harry recovered. He didn't know anything about it until Harry's fist made contact with his eye.  
  
Dudley retaliated, but Harry was matching him blow for blow and as Dudley's damaged eye began to close up he was at the disadvantage of being unable to judge the speed and distance of Harry's fists at any given moment. He felt his posture become more defensive than aggressive. Not Harry, he told himself, still scarcely able to believe it could be happening. I can't let Harry, of all people, beat me. It was ridiculous. Dudley didn't know whether he was more angry at himself or at his cousin. He hit out blindly and Harry went flying backwards. He hit the wall.  
  
"You used magic!" protested Harry, picking himself up.   
  
"I didn't!" But had he, Dudley wondered? It was one thing to magically -- and accidentally -- throw a plate of poached egg across the room. But what about people? Harry seemed to be unhurt, which was lucky, but Dudley understood now exactly why his parents hated magic so much. It wasn't a gift. It was a curse. An uncontrollable curse.  
  
Harry wasn't listening. "Fine. If that's how you want it. He reached for his wand.  
  
"Expelliarmus!" shouted Mr Weasley, deftly catching the wand as it flew out of Harry's hand, while Mr Dursley rugby-tackled his son to the floor.  
  
"That's enough of that ruddy nonsense," he grunted, puffing hard. "I didn't bring you to Grunnings to play silly buggers."  
  
"I won," said Harry fiercely. "And I didn't use magic!"  
  
He'd certainly come out of it with slightly less damage. Dudley knew he'd been overconfident. Careless. He hadn't been prepared for the weight behind Harry's blows. He knew Harry had filled out over the past year but Dudley was so much in the habit of thinking of his cousin as a wimp that he'd underestimated him. That, he now recognised, was a habit he could no longer afford. He touched his eye experimentally and winced. It only took glance at his mother's horrified expression to know that the eye looked as bad as it felt. No, Harry certainly wasn't a puny weakling any more.  
  
Mr Weasley wasn't impressed. "If you call it winning when you're reduced to bashing the living daylights out of one another," he said grimly.  
  
To Mr Weasley it had probably sounded like Harry was gloating, but Dudley knew it was a victory that his cousin had waited for all his life. On another occasion, he might even have managed to scrape together enough sportsmanship to feel grudgingly pleased for Harry. If he hadn't been in so much pain. If he hadn't been feeling so depressed.  
  
"What am I going to do?" he said, almost to himself.  
  
"There are lots of things you can change about who you are, Dudley," said Mr Weasley. "Being a wizard, well, you're stuck with that whether you like it or not." He took out a magically-chilled handkerchief and held it to Dudley's eye.  
  
Suddenly it struck Dudley as strange that Mr Weasley was trying to comfort him. Surely, he thought, someone else would have been at the front of the queue to do that. And, given the choice, Dudley knew he would have preferred that. "Where's Fleur?" he asked.  
  
"Fleur's gone," said Mr Weasley. "Left before you and Harry started laying into one another." He pursed his lips thoughtfully as he looked into space. Dudley shuffled guiltily, remembering how he'd spoken to her. If Mr Weasley blamed him for upsetting Fleur, he wished he would just yell at him rather than pretending nothing was wrong. But when Mr Weasley finally turned to him, his tone was the same one he might have used to ask Mr Dursley how Muggle locks worked. "Does that surprise you?"  
  
Dudley didn't reply. An old memory was sidling its way out of some shadowy corner of his mind. The memory of another, much earlier, encounter with magic and what had happened as a result of that meeting. If he'd ever in his life deserved to be wearing a pig's tail, this, he thought, was surely that moment.  
  
In the aftermath of the fight, Mr Weasley and Mr Dursley had finally found some common ground. They were both agreed that they should send the lads out of the way while they decided what course of action to take.  
  
"I'll need to ask you both a few questions," Mr Weasley told Petunia Dursley and Dominique Bouleau before he turned to Dudley, Harry and Neville. "No need for you boys to hang around here getting bored."  
  
"Too right. Take yourselves off for an hour or so," grunted Vernon Dursley. He pushed a few notes into Dudley's hand. "Get something to eat, go for a walk, play on the space invaders, just keep yourselves out of trouble. I'll see you in the canteen at five. It'll give us some time to sort this ruddy mess out." He produced the keys to his office. "Best go into my office, Weasley. I'll open the door. The _normal_ way." 


	8. Like a Flower

8. LIKE A FLOWER  
  
Dudley, Harry and Neville sauntered down to the highly-polished Grunnings reception only to discover that it was raining heavily outside. Muddy water streamed across the forecourt's flagstones, running down onto the road. They looked at it in disgust through the tinted glass of the revolving doors before finally resigning themselves to staying inside the building. After basking in the suspicious glare of the security guard for as long as they felt prudent, they finally decided they might as well wander over to the canteen.  
  
They took the stairs to the mezzanine, each privately relishing the apprehensive looks that three swaggering teenage lads can inspire in adults, especially when they look as battle-scarred and dangerous as Dudley and Harry, in particular, did at that moment.  
  
In the canteen they ordered a pot of coffee and a plate of cheese and pickle sandwiches. Neville and Dudley carried the trays over to a table near the door, while Harry stayed behind, talking to the canteen manager. From across the room, Dudley and Neville saw her laugh, nod and take something out of the freezer for Harry. When he returned to the table, he wordlessly handed Dudley a bag of frozen peas.  
  
Dudley held them against his eye. The throbbing pain withered to a dull ache under the ice. "Good punch," he said.  
  
"Yeah," said Harry. There was an uncomfortable pause. "The magic wasn't too bad either." His voice trailed off part way through the sentence, as though he wished he hadn't brought that up. Dudley didn't feel any more comfortable with the subject. But he knew he'd have to deal with it sooner or later.  
  
"So... how do you stop yourself? You know?" Still holding the peas to his sore eye, he looked from Harry to Neville.  
  
"You just learn." Harry shrugged. "Once you accept that you're the one that's causing all the strange things that happen around you, you start finding ways not to cause them." He and Neville exchanged embarrassed grins. "Not to cause them too often anyway."  
  
Harry drained his coffee cup and reached for the pot, pouring some for Dudley and Neville. Dudley took a swig of the hot coffee but felt a sudden chill deep in the pit of his stomach, as if jaws of ice were eating him from within.   
  
Neville watched him guardedly. "Fleur'll be getting home by now." he said quietly.  
  
Fleur had gone. For all Dudley's suspicions about her motives, part of him had never doubted that she'd be there. He'd taken it for granted that she'd be around ready for the next time he pushed her away. He'd jumped to conclusion after conclusion about her and, after all, she was a person too, someone with thoughts and feelings known only to herself.  
  
"You don't think it's my fault?" he asked Neville. "Do you?"  
  
Neville looked uncomfortable. "You should have seen the look on your face after she offered to help you with magic... If a girl looked at me like that when I tried to speak to her, I don't think I'd ever leave the house again."  
  
Dudley laughed scornfully. "No way. It wasn't my fault. It was..." He stopped. It couldn't be his fault. Things never were. Things that he broke were just badly made. People he hurt needed to toughen themselves up. But if he wasn't to blame in this case, he couldn't imagine what was.  
  
Harry reached for a sandwich. "Maybe you should go and see her. Take her flowers or something?"  
  
Dudley shook his head resolutely. "Not my style," he said.  
  
Harry snorted at this. "Since when did you have a style?" He laughed. "Look, even if you don't like the girl, you owe her an apology."  
  
Dudley flinched at the word "apology". He gave Harry a sly look. "Since when have you been an expert on women?" he wanted to ask, but didn't. Stupid question. Harry's freak school had one advantage over Smeltings in that it wasn't single sex. It stood to reason Harry would be less fazed by girls. He nodded, turning his attention to a splash of coffee the canteen floor. "When my dad buys flowers for my mum, he always gets petunias". It suddenly struck him what an appropriate present flowers would be for Fleur and he felt a daft smile creeping across his face. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop the smile. Even so, he wasn't quick enough to escape Harry's notice.  
  
"Ah!" said Harry with an altogether-too-perceptive twinkle behind his glasses.  
  
"Ah," agreed Dudley blushing.   
  
Harry and Neville looked at him. Both were smirking expectantly and trying hard not to. "So what are you waiting for?"  
  
Dudley groaned and held the bag of peas over both eyes.  
  
The arrival of his parents, together with Mr Weasley and Madame Bouleau in the canteen meant that Dudley was rescued from having immediately to commit to any action regarding Fleur. Mr and Mrs Dursley were looking pale and traumatised, while Mme Bouleau had on the same resigned expression she had worn upstairs outside his dad's office. Mr Weasley was trying to keep the tone of things pleasant and reasonable, but the strain was telling in the little muscles around his eyes.  
  
"Mrs Dursley and Mme Bouleau are going to come back to the Ministry with me," he told the boys. "Mr Dursley will take you all back home."  
  
Dudley gave his mother a questioning look, but Petunia Dursley averted her eyes and kept them determinedly lowered. "We can talk later, Dudley," she said. "I know you have a lot of questions but now isn't the time". Dudley sighed. He and the others followed his dad out of the canteen, through the Grunnings reception area and back towards the car park.  
  
No one was particularly keen to travel in the front passenger seat next to Mr Dursley. Harry's wariness was understandable. He never got too close to Vernon Dursley if he could possibly avoid doing so and Neville's sudden twitchiness around the older man who had been nothing other than friendly and encouraging towards him made Dudley wonder whether Neville didn't have his own "Uncle Vernon" somewhere in his family that made him apprehensive of unpredictable violent outbursts. Resignedly, Dudley slid into the front passenger seat next to his father.  
  
Once inside the car, Dudley had expected his father to launch into a tirade against "those people", and, in particular the nest of vipers he'd unknowingly been nurturing around him for the past fifteen years. Longer, if he'd really been unaware that his wife was a witch. Dudley wasn't in the mood for that particular rant. For one thing, however much he might hate the fact, he was "one of those people" and he and his family were simply going to have to get used to it. He only hoped his relationship with his father would somehow survive the day's revelations. The other thing was that he simply wanted to be left alone with his thoughts, unhappy as they were, about Fleur.  
  
He had kept telling himself that she couldn't possibly really like him. Over and over, he'd assured himself that she couldn't really care one way or the other if he gave her the brush off. But the more he thought back on how delighted she always was to see him and the way she always interpreted his behaviour in the best possible way, the more he knew he was just making excuses for his own, inexcusable, behaviour. When he tried to see it from her point of view, he saw just how callous he'd been. Plainer people didn't have a monopoly on sensitivity. Being treated like that was going to hurt just as much whatever body you were in.  
  
But, surprisingly, no tirade was forthcoming from Mr Dursley. Indeed, he was uncharacteristically silent. His skin had a worrying, greyish cast to it and there was something about his movements as he lowered himself into the driver's seat and turned the ignition key that suggested a sleepwalker rather than a man in full control of his actions. For the first time in his life, Dudley had a sudden, chilling glimpse into a future where Vernon Dursley would no longer be a fiery, indomitable figure, barking out orders to his employees, strong in body and personality, in complete control of his own life and that of anyone weak enough to let him take over. Everything a man should be, everything that Dudley had been taught to aspire to. Every expectation he was, suddenly, spectacularly, failing to meet. But if Vernon Dursley wasn't old, he wasn't young either. And he had a bad heart. One day, maybe only another ten years or so from now, most of that fire and strength would desert Vernon Dursley's body. What, Dudley wondered, would be left behind of his father? His love for his family and friends? His pride in his own achievements and those of his loved ones? Or just an angry, helpless, hollowed-out shell of a man, screaming in frustration at the frailties and failures of a body that had once allowed him to dominate his little world?  
  
Everything a man should be. Dudley rolled his eyes, but not at the fast-moving landscape of office buildings they passed as they left Canary Wharf. Looming tower blocks wheeled around the car to be replaced by a flash of greenery as they passed the Westferry Circus roundabout before they plunged into the buzzing maw of the tunnel, joining the end of the southbound rush hour tailback. But was it everything a man _could_ be, Dudley wondered, as he stared blankly ahead at the line of cars in front of them. Even if it were possible to reject the magical side of himself, would it be a mistake to follow strictly in his father's footsteps? To never try to beat a new path, one of his own making?  
  
They were travelling through the Elephant and Castle now. As the car swung round the garish pink shopping centre there, Dudley suddenly realised that to get to Little Whinging they would have to pass...  
  
"We're going to pass through Vauxhall, right?" he asked, trying to keep the anxious note out of his voice.  
  
"By Kennington Oval, that's right." Those were the first words his dad had spoken during that journey. They sounded hollow and distant, like an echo of Vernon Dursley's voice. "I used to take you there to see the cricket. When you were..." he trailed off wearily.  
  
"Can you drop me off there?" Dudley asked. "I just want to go and see, um, a friend of mine." No one spoke, but he could sense, behind him, the alert, listening silence of Harry and Neville.  
  
"A friend, eh?" said Vernon Dursley at last. He sounded dubious, but there was no fight left in him. Not today. Nonetheless, when they reached Kennington Oval, he pulled up and let Dudley out.  
  
"Thanks, dad." Dudley gave his father a friendly punch on the arm, but Vernon Dursley didn't look at him. There were wounds that wouldn't be healed in a day. No doubt they'd leave scars on the Dursley family, but in time, hopefully, they would heal.  
  
Once the silver BMW had pulled away, Dudley found his bearings and headed in the direction of Fentiman Road at a brisk walk, which soon became a run. Fleur's house was at the far end, towards Vauxhall Bridge Road and when Dudley arrived at her door, he was gasping for breath. Too winded to speak, at first he confined himself to banging on the door. There was no reply, but that wasn't surprising. In her upstairs flat, Fleur probably couldn't hear anyone knocking at the door.  
  
"FLEUR!" he yelled as soon as he'd got his breath back. He knelt down on the doorstep and held the letterbox open. "FLEUR!"  
  
"What the devil's all this noise?" said an irritable voice behind him. Dudley turned to see a harrassed-looking woman standing on the doorstep on his left. In her arms, she was jiggling a grizzling baby. "I'd just got him off to sleep."  
  
Dudley felt embarrassed. He stood up. "I just wanted to see Fleur," he said. "The girl who lives here."  
  
"Obviously she's not in," remarked the harrassed woman crossly. "That or she doesn't want to see you. Either way, it's not doing any good you bellowing like that."  
  
Dudley saw her point and had to agree with it, although it still took all his self control to stop himself from flicking a V at the woman before he turned away from the door and began slouching on towards Vauxhall Bridge Road and the station there. He could catch the tube from there back into central London and then take a train to Little Whinging.  
  
The grey evening light seemed to fold around him, giving the road an unreal, off-kilter feeling. In spite of his mood of despair, Dudley found there was something strangely liberating about the feeling that things couldn't get any worse. He was passing by Vauxhall park and the smell of recently mown grass added to his sensory overload. A raucous, laddish shout from somewhere beyond the greenery made Dudley look up. He couldn't remember the last time he was so much in the mood for getting into a fight. As he approached the corner of Fentiman and Vauxhall Bridge Road where the gates were, he turned, on impulse into the park.  
  
Then he saw her. He would have recognised her anywhere. It wasn't just the silvery blonde hair. Or the way she moved. It was everything about her. She was walking along the path on the other side of the field.   
  
"FLEUR!" he bawled and began charging across the park.  
  
She stopped and looked round, a shocked expression on her face. For a moment Fleur didn't speak. She was like a statue. Then she turned and began walking quickly away from him. Dudley followed, deliberately lagging a few yards behind her. He didn't have any right to stand any closer than that. "Fleur, wait!"  
  
What was he doing? He couldn't turn back time, he couldn't unsay the things he'd said or the way he'd said them. There was only one way forward and however much it cost him to say it, he knew he would never forgive himself if he didn't say it. Fleur looked round, her expression cool and haughty.  
  
"Fleur. I'm sorry." He was feeling big and clumsy and stupid. He felt the situation demanded someone more eloquent. He tried.   
  
"It's just... I wasn't... You know..." he gave up trying to excuse himself. "I'm just sorry, that's all," he finished wretchedly.  
  
Fleur wavered. "It is no matter," she said at last," but her voice was cool. "I'm sure Mr Weasley will find you a part-time magic course. Or maybe Professor Dumbledore will give you a place at 'Ogwarts. If that's what you want."  
  
He shook his head. "I don't want to change schools," he admitted. "I'm not exactly brilliant at Smeltings, but at least I've done four years of the subjects there. Starting at Freak School, er, I mean Hogwarts, well, there'd be a load of new subjects, wouldn't there?"  
  
Fleur inclined her head coldly. "You're making excuses, Dudley. You 'ave to face your fears, not to run away from them."  
  
Dudley kicked at a tree stump. "I'm not afraid," he growled.   
  
Fleur watched him skeptically. Then she shrugged. "Fine. You're not afraid. But you are still running away."  
  
It was true. And sooner or later, he'd have to stop running and look his fears in the face. Why not start today? "You offered to help me," he said softly. "With m-- magic," he stumbled over the old taboo word, but at least it was out. Spoken. "Will you still do that? Please?"  
  
There was a long silence. Dudley took it as a refusal. "Well, anyway," he muttered. He was on the point of turning away. He'd said what he needed to say. He was glad he'd said it, even though it didn't make a difference any more. Even though he'd still be going back to Little Whinging and the familiar strangers of his family. Then she ran to him.  
  
Dudley was caught off-guard and stumbled backwards a couple of steps taking her with him. It was the last thing he'd expected. They had their arms around one another and, as their lips met, the park and the darkening sky seemed to spin around them.  
  
For a long time neither of them spoke. And when they finally did speak, Fleur didn't try to explain what it was like to be part-Veela -- to be so beautiful that she was constantly being harrassed by strange men who took her appearance as an open invitation to accost her, while most normal guys avoided her, assuming she wouldn't want anything to do with them. She didn't go into all the friendships she'd had with girls that had fallen apart as soon as the other girl began to see Fleur as a rival rather than a ally. And for his part, Dudley didn't talk about what it was like to be Dudley Dursley, the fat kid with all the toys money could buy -- and all the friends that having the right toys could buy. He didn't try to describe the anxiety that had begun to weigh down on him from the moment that he first suspected that the Dudley Dursley he thought he knew was turning out to be exactly the kind of freak he'd been brought up to hate and fear -- or the confusion he'd felt as he'd begun to discover that being "abnormal" wasn't as unusual or undesirable as he'd always thought.  
  
Although he held her hand tightly, Dudley held his strange, unknown new feelings like a delicate flower. Scarcely daring to breathe near it for fear that the petals should bruise and crumble away. He was with this incredible girl who, inexplicably, miraculously, thought he was incredible too. Could it last? Would it hurt more to try and fail than to run from the chance of happiness? Even if it were a very slender chance. And Dudley thought it probably was. He'd changed so much in one year, what if he was still changing? There were so many things that could go wrong. He tried not to think about it. He didn't even dare to talk about it. Instead, they talked about the cool evening breeze that was ruffling their hair as they walked through Vauxhall Park. They complained about how the smell of fried fish from the Portuguese takeaway on the main road was making them hungry. They laughed about Dudley's black eye and about an oddly-shaped little terrier that squeezed itself under the mesh and then trotted proudly across the tennis court with a rubber ball in its mouth. But through these silly, irrelevant subjects they began to understand one another in ways that hours of explanation, analysis and heart searching could never shed light on.  
  
"I know about tennis," said Fleur, "I don't know 'ow to play though. Will you teach me?"  
  
"Sure," said Dudley. He frowned. "I don't think I want to play against you. I'd always want you to win."  
  
"Doubles?" Fleur tilted her head to one side and peered up at him through a few silvery wisps of hair with a mischievous smile.  
  
Dudley thought about it. He'd never played doubles and didn't know how he'd get on with someone else playing on his side. That was practically a team game. But if he did have to have someone on his team... He smiled thoughtfully. They could ask Harry and Neville to play against them. He wondered whether either of them was any good at tennis. With a bit of luck they didn't teach the game at Hogwarts.  
  
He grinned and pulled her towards him for another kiss. "Doubles."  
  
THE END 


End file.
